t&l'  XZ 


\ 


Willie  Burton,  or  the  Soldier  Boy — p.  1. 


WILLIE  BENTON 


OTHER  STORIES 


BY    MRS.     S.     P.    DOUGHTY 


'  PLAYING   SANTA   CLAUS   AND   OTHER    TALES  "    AND    "  STORIES 
AND    RHYMES   FOR   BOYS   AND   GIRLS  " 


BOSTON 

HENRY    H.    &    T.   W.    CARTER 
1869 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S69,  by 

HENRY  H.  &  T.  W.  CARTER, 
In  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Dist.  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  INXKS,  REGAX  &  LEAUBEATEB, 
55  Water  Street,  Boston. 


Presivork  by  Henry  H.  &  T.  W.  Cuter. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

WILLIE  BENTON  ;    OR,  THE  SOLDIER'S  BOY     ...  5 

SIXTY  MINUTES  MAKE  ONE  HOUR 34 

THE  LOST  KNIFE  ;    OR,  BEARING  FALSE  WITNESS  .  59 

MAKING  THE  BEST  OF  IT 72 

ISABEL'S  BIRTHDAY 88 

"I'LL  TELL  MOTHER" no 

THE  CHRISTMAS  GIFTS 116 

GOING  DOWN  HILL 127 

CLARA'S   BIRTHDAY  ;    OR,  THE   MOTIVE  MAKES  THE 

DEED 139 

OUR  WORK .    .    .  x£Z 

HENRY'S  NAP  IN  THE  ARBOR 164 

MISCHIEVOUS  TOM;   OR,  IT  is  ONLY  FOR  FUN     .     .  177 


WILLIE  BENTON; 

OR, 

THE    SOLDIER'S  B  O  T. 

MILLIE  BENTON  was  a  very 
happy  little  boy.  He  lived  in 
a  pleasant  cottage,  far  away  among 
the  hills  and  mountains,  in  one  of  the 
Eastern  States,  with  his  father  and 
mother,  who  loved  him  very  dearly.  Mr.  Benton 
was  a  laboring  man,  and  supported  his  little  family 
by  working  for  the  wealthy  farmers  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

He  was  industrious  and  faithful,  and  an  excellent 
workman,  and  could  always  obtain  steady  employ- 
ment. He  was  also  an  intelligent  man,  and  had 
received  a  tolerably  good  common  school  education 
when  he  was  young,  which  he  now  found  to  be  a 
great  blessing  to  him. 

When  his  day's  work  was  done,  he  would  often 
5 


6  Willie  Bentonj  or, 

spend  an  hour  in  working  about  his  own  home, 
and  when  his  supper  was  over,  and  he  had  played 
with  little  Willie  until  his  mother  was  ready  to 
put  him  into  his  trundle-bed,  he  wou  ke  some 
interesting  and  instructive  book,  and  read  aloud  for 
an  hour  or  two,  while  his  wife  was  busy  with  her 
needle. 

Willie  liked  to  look  at  pictures,  and  hear  little 
stories,  very  much  ;  and  when  he  was  three  years 
old  his  father  brought  him  home  a  primer,  and  a 
slate  and  pencil,  for  he  said  it  was  time  to  begin 
to  teach  Willie  his  letters,  and  that  he  should  show 
them  to  him  in  the  book,  and  then  make  them  on 
the  slate  to  help  him  to  remember  their  form. 
Willie  was  very  much  pleased  with  the.  primer, 
but  he  was  still  more  delighted  with  the  slate  and 
pencil.  He  had  never  seen  one  before,  and  he 
thought  it  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world. 
When  his  father  made  two  or  three  letters  on  the 
slate  for  him  to  look  at,  he  clapped  his  hands  joy- 
fully, and  wanted  to  take  the  pencil  himself,  and 
try  if  he  could  not  make  some  too.  His  father 
gave  him  the  pencil,  and  was  quite  astonished  to 
find  that  Willie  could  make  letters  very  nearly  as 
well  as  he  could.  The  little  boy  was  quite  proud 


The  Soldier's  Boy. 


of  his  success,  and  after  making  several  letters,  he 
suddenly  exclaimed,  — 

••  Now  I  will  make  mother !  "  and  he  immedi- 
ately dre\v  the  figure  of  a  woman,  which,  though 
it  did  not  bear  much  resemblance  to  his  mother, 
was  so  well  drawn  that  Mr.  Benton  hastily  called 
his  wife  from  the  next  room  to  come  and  look  at 
it,  and  told  her  in  a  whisper  that  he  really  believed 
the  boy  would  make  an  artist,  for  he  could  already 
draw  much  better  than  he  could  do. 

Mrs.  Benton  smiled,  and  said  that  she  used  to 
draw  prettv  well  when  she  was  a  young  girl,  and 
then  she  looked  at  Willie's  letters,  and  at  the  pic- 
ture of  herself,  and  seemed  very  much  pleased. 

From  this  time,  Willie's  slate  and  pencil  were 
his  constant  companions.  Almost  everything  that 
he  saw  he  would  try  to  draw  upon  his  slate.  He 
made  pictures  of  horses  and  cows,  and  dogs  and 
cats,  and  sheep  and.,  lambs,  and  houses,  and  trees, 
and  men  and  women,  and  children.  Of  course, 
they  were  only  rough  sketches,  but  they  were  really 
wonderfully  well  done  for  such  a  little  child. 

But  Willie's  happy  days  were  not  to  last  very 
long.  The  war  had  commenced,  and  though  for 
some  time  Mr.  Benton  did  not  think  it  his  duty  to 


8  Willie  Benton;  or, 

leave  his  wife  and  child,  yet,  as  the  call  for  men 
became  more  urgent,  he  at  length  yielded,  and 
after  making  every  arrangement  for  their  comfort, 
he  bade  them  a  sorrowful  farewell,  and  joined  the 
troops  who  were  about  marching  from  his  native 
State. 

This  was  a  great  trial  to  Airs.  Benton,  but  she 
looked  to  the  Lord  for  strength,  and  tried  hard  to 
do  her  duty. 

During  the  first  year  of  her  husband's  absence* 
she  heard  from  him  frequently,  and  as  he  seemed 
in  good  health  and  spirits,  she  gradually  recovered 
her  cheerfulness,  and  looked  forward  with  hope  to 
the  time  of  his  return.  She  took  great  pains  with 
Willie's  reading,  and  he  learned  rapidly,  although 
he  did  not  enjoy  it  so  much  as  drawing  on  his 
darling  slate.  His  mother  often  gave  him  a  little 
piece  of  paper  and  a  lead  pencil,  that  he  might 
draw  some  little  picture  to  send  to  his  father,  or 
write  him  a  little  letter,  and  Willie  could  print  the 
letters  so  neatly,  and  put  the  words  together  so 
well,  that  he  could  really  make  out  a  very  neat  lit- 
tie  letter.  And  then  his  father  would  send  him 
one  in  return,  telling  him  how  much  he  loved  him 
and  thought  of  him,  and  how  happy  it  made  him 


The  Soldiers  Boy.  9 

to  receive  his  little  note,  and  the  pretty  pictures 
which  he  sometimes  sent. 

But  at  length  there  came  news  of  a  fearful  battle, 
in  which  the  regiment^to  which  Mr.  Benton  be- 
longed was  actively  engaged ;  and  as  the  days 
passed  on,  and  not  a  line  was  received  to  tell  of  his 
safety,  his  poor  wife's  heart  grew  very  sad,  and  her 
anxiety  became  so  great  that  she  found  it  almost 
impossible  to  attend  to  her  daily  duties.  At  last 
the  list  of  the  killed  and  wounded  appeared  in  the 
daily  papers,  and  the  cause  of  his  silence  was  now 
explained,  for  the  name  of  William  Benton  was 
the  first  among  the  many  who  had  fallen  in  his 
company. 

Willie  watched  his  mother  as  the  paper  fell  from 
her  hand,  and  she  sunk  back  in  the  chair  so  white 
and  motionless,  and  although  he  was  too  young  to 
understand  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw,  he  was 
much  alarmed,  and  running  to  her  side,  begged 
her  to  speak  to  him,  and  tell  him  what  was  the 
matter.  But  as  all  his  efforts  to  make  her  speak 
were  in  vain,  he  brought  his  little  cricket  and 
seated  himself  at  her  feet,  and  leaning  his  head 
upon  her  lap,  sobbed  aloud.  A  kind  neighbor, 
who  had  heard  the  sad  news,  soon  came  in,  and 


io  Willie  Benton;  or, 

she  laid  Mrs.  Benton  upon  the  bed,  and  after  a 
while  succeeded  in  restoring  her  to  consciousness. 
But  she  had  always  been  a  feeble  woman,  and  this 
great  shock,  added  to  the,  anxiety  which  she  had 
endured  for  many  days,  was  too  much  for  her 
strength,  and  for  weeks  she  was  too  ill  to  leave  her 
bed,  or  to  attend  to  the  wants  of  her  little  Willie. 
The  good  woman  who  had  first  come  to  her  assist- 
ance was  her  only  near  neighbor,  and  she  was  a 
widow,  with  a  family  of  children  to  attend  to.  Of 
course  she  had  but  little  time  to  spare,  but  when 
she  could  not  go  herself  to  help  her  poor  neighbor, 
she  would  send  her  little  -girls,  who,  though  not 
more  than  eight  or  ten  years  old,  were  bright, 
handy  little  things,  and  tried  to  do  their  very  best ; 
and  after  a  few  days,  those  who  had  employed  Mr. 
Benton  before  he  became  a  soldier  heard  of  the 
situation  of  his  wife,  and  sent  or  came  to  see  if 
they  could  do  anything  for  her  relief. 

It  was  early  spring  when  she  was  taken  ill,  and 
the  rose§  were  in  bloom  before  she  was  again  able 
to  perform  her  usual  duties.  Willie  thought  him- 
self a  veiy  happy  bqy  when  his  dear  mother  could 
sit  up  and  walk  abQuj:  the  rooms  once  more.  He 
had  wept  bitterly  when  first  tQld  of  his  father's 


The  Soldier's  Boy.  n 

death,  but  his  tears  were  soon  dried,  for  he  had 
learned  to  live  without. him,  and  did  not  really  miss 
him  as  he  missed  his  mother,  when  she  was  too  ill 
to  attend  to  him.  Mrs.  Benton  gradually  grew 
more  resigned  and  cheerful,  and  tried  to  forget  her 
own  grief  in  earnest  endeavors  to  do  all  she  could 
for  the  little  one  who  was  now  left  to  her  sole 
charge. 

The  gentleman  who  owned  her  little  cottage  was 
one  for  whom  her  husband  had  often  worked,  and 
who  had  ahvays  been  very  friendly  toward  them. 
He  had  called  to  see  Mrs.  Benton,  and  had  kindly 
told  her  that  she  was  quite  welcome  to  continue  to 
live  in  the  cottage,  rent  free,  as  long  as  she  pleased. 

••  When  my  little  friend  Willie  is  old  enough  to 
help  you,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  about  rent," 
he  said. 

Mrs.  Benton  thanked  him  most  gratefully  for  his 
kindness.  She  still  had  a  little  money  laid  by,  but 
it  was  only  a  little,  and  she  wished  to  make  it  last 
as  long  as  possible,  until  her  health  and  strength 
should  fully  return,  and  she  should  be  able  to  think 
of  some  way  in  which  she  could  provide  for  her- 
self and  Willie. 

But  health  and  strength  did  not  return.     During 


12  Willie  Benton  j  or, 

the  pleasant  summer  weather  she  was  able  to  work 
a  little  in  the  cottage,  and  sometimes  even  took  a 
short  walk  with  Willie,  or  helped  him  in  his  little 
garden ;  but  when  the  autumn  came,  she  grew 
more  feeble,  and  had  a  distressing  cough,  which 
troubled  her  very  much,  both  night  and  day.  Win- 
ter set  in  early,  and  the  snow  was  soon  very  deep. 
Mrs.  Benton  lived  in  a  lonely  place ;  and  now  that 
the  weather  was  so  severe,  and  the  roads  difficult 
to  travel,  she  seldom  saw  any  one  excepting  her 
good  neighbor  Mrs.  Alien,  and  her  children. 
They  were  always  kind  and  thoughtful,  and  when 
tlie  morning  was  cold  and  stormy,  the  eldest  boy, 
George,  would  always  knock  at  her  door  at  an 
early  hour,  and  say  that  he  had  come  to  do  what 
he  could  to  make  her  comfortable  before  he  went 
to  his  work  ;  for  George  was  eleven  years  old  ;  and 
as  his  mother  was  a  poor  widow  with  several  other 
children  to  support,  she  could  not  afford  to  send 
him  to  school  when  he  could  find  any  employment 
by  which  he  could  earn  even  a  little  to  help  along. 
Mrs.  Benton  would  smile  and  thank  him  very 
gratefully,  as  he  brought  her  wood  and  water  for 
the  day ;  and  little  Willie  would  often  say, — 


The  Soldiers  Boy.  13 

"  You  are  a  good  boy,  George,  and  I  will  draw 
you  the  very  prettiest  picture  I  can." 

Then  George  would  go  whistling  to  his  work, 
with  his  heart  warmed  and  made  glad  by  the 
thought  that  he  had  done  a  kind  action. 

Every  day,  and  sometimes  two  or  three  times  in 
the  day,  would  good  Mrs.  Allen  bustle  in,  and,  in 
her  cheerful  way,  say  she  had  a  few  minutes  to 
spare,  and  had  come  to  do  some  "little  turn"  for 
her  sick  neighbor.  She  was  not  a  worflan  of  as 
.much  education  or  refinement  as  Mrs.  Benton,  but 
her  heart  was  full  of  kindness,  and  she  would 
willingly  have  denied  herself  many  comforts  for 
the  sake  of  helping  the  widow  and  her  orphan  boy. 

Mrs.  Benton  was  cheered  and  comforted  bv  these 
acts  of  kindness,  and  endeavored  to  make  some 
return  by  teaching  her  kind  neighbor's  children  to 
read  and  write,  and  sometimes  giving  George  a 
little  instruction  in  arithmetic,  in  the  long  evenings, 
after  Willie  was  asleep. 

She  often  suffered  much  pain,  and  had  days  of 
great  weakness,  but  she  hoped  and  believed  that 
when  the  mild  weather  returned,  she  should  gain 
strength,  and  that  her  cough  and  other  troubles 
would  pass  away. 


14  Willie  Benton;  or, 

But  this  was -not  to  be.  Death  came  very  sud- 
denly at  last.  For  several  days  she  had  seemed 
uncommonly  well,  and  Willie  had  rejoiced  that 
dear  mamma  was  growing  so  strong,  and  did  not 
cough  so  hard  any  more.  •  Then  came  a  sudden 
change ;  and,  before  the  frightened  child  could 
bring  Mrs.  Allen  to  her  aid,  she  was  quite  unable 
to  speak,  and  could  only  look  imploringly  at  her 
kind  friend,  and  then  turn  her  eyes  toward  her 
darling  boy. 

"  He  shall  never  want  a  friend,"  said  the  good 
woman,  as  she  vainly  strove,  by  rubbing  and  other 
means,  to  restore  animation  to  the  almost  lifeless 
form.  But  all  her  efforts  were  useless,  and  in  a 
few  moments  the  spirit  passed  peacefully  away. 

Weeks  passed :  Willie  had  been  taken  to  -Mrs. 
Alien's  house,  and  the  furniture  at  the  cottage  had 
been  sold  ;  and  what  little  money  remained  after 
the  funeral  expenses  were  defrayed,  had  been  given 
to  her  for  his  benefit.  It  was  but  a  small  sum, 
however,  and  the  poor  woman  felt  that  it  would  be 
no  easy  thing  for  her  to  bear  this  additional  bur- 
den. But  she  remembered  her  promises  to  his 
dying  mother,  and  she  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  giving  him  up  to  the  town.  "  I  will  do  all  I 


The  Soldier's  Boy.  15 

can  for  the  poor  little  fellow,"  she  said,  "  and  per- 
haps the  Lord  will  show  me  the  way  to  provide 
for  him." 

Willie  grieved  sadly  for  his  mother  ;  and  although 
all  were  kind  to  him,  he  was  not  happy  in  his  new 
home.  He  had  always  lived  alone  with  his  mother, 
or  with  his  father  and  mother,  and  it  seemed  strange 
to  him  to  be  with  so  many  children.  And  then 
good  Mrs.  Allen  was  not  at  all  like  his  own  gentle 
mother.  Willie,  therefore,  felt  lonely  and  home- 
sick, and  instead  of  being  the  merry  little  fellow  he 
once  had  been,  grew  so  quiet  and  sad  that  Mrs. 
Allen  feared  he  was  ill. 

"  Poor  thing,"  she  would  sometimes  say  with  a 
sigh,  "  he  is  just  wearing  away  like  his  poor 
mother.  I  do  not  think  he  has  long  to  stay  in  this 
world." 

But  Willie  was  not  really  ill,  although  he  looked 
rather  pale  and  thin,  and  did  not  frolic  and  play 
with  the  other  children,  but  would  sit  for  hours 
busy  with  his  slate  and  pencil,  or  reading  in  the 
little  Bible  from  which  his  mother  had  so  often 
read  aloud  to  him. 

One  day,  about  the  middle  of  the  summer,  while 
the  children  were  playing  near  the  cottage,  and 


16  Willie  Benton;  or, 

Mrs.  Allen  was  busy  in  her  little  kitchen,  a  travel- 
ling carriage  was  seen  slowly  winding  its  way  up 
a  steep  hill  at  a  little  distance.  As  it  came  neai'ly 
opposite  the  cottage,  the  driver  reined  up  his 
horses,  and  beckoning  to  one  of  the  older  children, 
inquired  which  was  the  shortest  road  to  a  neigh- 
boring town.  The  child  not  knowing  how  to  reply, 
ran  to  call  her  mother,  and  Mrs.  Allen  soon  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  wiping  her  hands  upon  her 
apron,  and  dropping  a  curtsey  as  she  advanced 
toward  the  carriage. 

"  The  right-hand  road  is  the  most  travelled," 
she  said  to  the  driver,  "  and  it  will  lead  you  to  the 
centre  of  the  town." 

"  Thank  you,  my  good  woman,"  replied  a  very 
pleasant  looking  gentleman,  leaning  out  of  the 
carriage  window.  "  Can  you  oblige  us  by  giving 
this  lady  a  glass  of  water?"  and  as  he  spoke  he 
looked  toward  a  gentle,  delicate-looking  lady  by 
his  side,  who  also  leaned  forward,  and  smiling 
kindly  upon  Mrs.  Allen,  seemed  to  gaze  with  much 
interest  upon  the  group  of  children  who  stood 
eagerly  watching  the  strangers. 

The  water  was  quickly  brought,  and  as  the  lady 
handed  back  the  glass,  she  said,  — 


The  Soldier's  Boy.  17 

"You  have  a  fine  family  of  children,  my  friend. 
Are  these  all  yours  ?  " 

"Yes  ma'am,  I  may  say  they  are  all  mine, — 

• 

all  but  the  little  fellow  seated  on  the  rock  yonder, 
with  the  slate  and  pencil  in  his  hand  ;  he  is  a  stray 
lamb,  poor  thing.  His  father  was  killed  in  the 
war,  and  his  mother  died  not  many  months  ago, 
with  a  broken  heart,  I  am  thinking." 

"  Poor  child  !  "  exclaimed  the  lady,  with  much 
interest;  "and  were  you  a  near  relative  of  the 
father  or  mother?" 

••Xot  a  bit  of  a  relative,  ma'am,  only  a  neigh- 
bor. We  lived  in  a  kind  of  a  lonely  way  here, 
and,  of  course,  I  did  all  I  could  for  her,  and  at 
last,  when  she  died  kind  of  sudden  like,  I  prom- 
ised to  be  a  friend  to  the  child ;  so  he  shares 
with  my  own,  ma'am,  which  is  all  I  can  do." 

"  Certainly  it  is,"  replied  the  gentleman,  who 
was  also  listening  to  the  story  with  much  interest ; 
*'  but  has  the  child  no  near  relations?  " 

"  Xot  one.  sir ;  I  have  often  heard  the  poor 
mother  say  that  there  was  no  one  to  claim  kindred 
with  her,  or  with  the  father.either." 

•'  It  must  be  quite  a  charge  for  you,  in  addition 

2 


i8  Willie  Bentonj  or, 

to  your  own  family,  my  good  woman.  Is  your 
husband  living?  " 

';  No,  sir  ;  I  have  been  a  widow  these  four  years. 
The  poor  orphan  is  welcome  to  all  we  can  do  for 
him,  but  he  feels  lonely  and  strange-like  among  us. 
His  father  and  mother  were  different  from  what 
\vs  are,  sir,  quite  different  indeed  ;  —  poor  enough, 
to  be  sure,  but  they  had  a  deal  of  learning,  and  the 
mother  was  a  born  lady." 

"  Cannot  we  get  out  of  the  carriage  for  awhile, 
and  rest  in  this  pleasant  place?"  asked  the  lady 
of  her  husband.  "  I  should  so  love  to  talk  to  the 
little  boy,  and  to  see  all  the  children." 

The  gentleman  looked  at  his  watch,  and  replied 
that  an  hour's  delay  would  be  of  no  consequence, 
and  directed  the  coachman  to  drive  to  a  shady 
place,  and  let  the  horses  rest  a  little. 

Mrs.  Allen  kindly  invited  the  gentleman  and  lady 
to  enter  the  cottage,  but  they  preferred  remaining 
outside  with  the  children,  and  begged  the  good 
woman  to  return  to  her  work,  promising  to  come 
in  and  see  her  before  they  left. 

The  lady  then  seated  herself  upon  a  rock  very 
near  to  where  Willie  was  still  sitting,  with  his  slate 
and  pencil  in  his  hand,  although  he  had  stopped 


The  Soldier's  Boy.  19 

drawing,  and  was  looking  earnestly  at  the  lady. 
She  smiled  upon  him,  and  said. — 

••  You  have  a  pretty  little  slate.  Have  you  been 
drawing  a  picture?" 

••  Yes.  ma'am."  replied  Willie,  timidlv. 

"And  will  you  show  it  to  me?"  asked  the  lady, 
holding  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke. 

Willie  rose  and  brought  her  the  slate.  There 
was  a  picture  of  a  ladv  sitting  in  a  chair  with  a 
book  in  her  hand,  and  a  little  boy  seated  at  her 
feet.  It  was,  of  course,  very  imperfectly  drawn, 
but  still  it  seemed  a  remarkable  drawing  for  so 
young  a  child,  and  the  ladv  exclaimed  with  sur- 
prise. — 

••  Did  you  draw  this  all  yourself,  my  little  boy?  " 

••  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Willie.  '•  It  is  a  picture 
of  my  mother  and  me.  This  is  my  mother."  he 
.vied,  pointing  to  the  figure  on  the  slate  :  >;  she 
is  reading  the  Bible  aloud,  and  this  is  me  sitting 
at  her  feet  and  listening  to  her.  Only  the  face  is 
not  much  like  my  mother's.  I  cannot  make  it 
quite  right.  She  looked  like  you,  I  think,  ma'am." 

"Did  she  indeed?"  replied  the  lady,  smiling. 
"  Then  I  suppose  you  will  love  me  a  little,  will 
YOU  not  ? " 


2O  Willie  Benton;  or, 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Willie,  nestling  close  to  the 
side  of  his  new  friend,  and  leaning  his  head  upon 
her  shoulder. 

Just  then  the  gentleman,  who  had  been  talking 
with  the  other  children,  approached,  and  said 
pleasantly,  — 

"  Why,  you  seem  to  have  made  friends  with  the 
little  boy  very  easily." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  for  he  says  I  look  like  his  mother." 

"  How  would  you  like  to  have  her  for  a  mother, 
Willie?"  asked  the  gentleman,  stroking  t^e  little 
boy's  curly  head.  "  Will  you  go  and  live  with  us 
in  our  home  in  the  western  country,  and  be  our 
own  little  boy?" 

The  lady  looked  gratefully  at  her  husband  as  he 
made  this  proposal,  and  waited  eagerly  for  Willie's 
reply. 

The  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  first 
at  one  and  then  at  the  other  of  his  new  friends,  as 
if  he  was  trying  to  decide. 

At  length  he  said,  — 

"  If  Mrs.  Allen  is  willing,  I  will  go.  She  was 
always  kind  to  mother  and  to  me,  and  I  must  mind 
what  she  says.  I  don't  love  to  live  here,  now  my 


The  Soldier's  Boy.  21 

mother  has  gone  to  heaven,  and  I  should  like  to  be 
your  little  boy." 

"  Well,  then,  we  will  talk  to  Mrs.  Allen,  and 
see  what  she  says  about  it,"  replied  the  gentleman  ; 
and  leaving  Willie,  he  went  with  his  wife  into  the 
cottage. 

Good  Mrs.  Allen  heard  their  proposition  to  take 
the  child  with  great  surprise,  and  seemed  to  know 
not  what  answer  to  make. 

"  We  are  wealthy,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  and 
have  a  very  pleasant  home  in  the  western  country. 
We  have  no  children,  and  my  wife  has  often  pro- 
posed to  me  to  adopt  some  little  orphan,  but  I  have 
never  felt  willing  to  do  so  until  I  saw  your  little 
Willie.  If  you  are  willing  to  give  him  up  we 
will  do  well  by  him,  and  you  will,  I  think,  fulfil 
your  promise  to  his  mother  as  faithfully  as  if  you 
kept  him  yourself." 

"  I  think  so  myself,  sir,"  answered  Mrs.  Allen, 
wiping  her  eyes,  for  she  felt  grieved  at  the  thought 
of  parting  with  the  child.  "  It  is  little  indeed  that 
I  can  do  for  him,  for  in  these  times  it  is  hard  to 
keep  soul  and  body  together.  And  yet  I  hardly 
like  to  give  him  up  to " 

"  Strangers,"    added   the   lady,  gently,  as  Mrs. 


22  Willie  Bentonj  or, 

Allen  hesitated.  "  It  is  very  natural  and  very 
proper  that  you  should  feel  so,  my  friendj  but  I 
do  assure  you,  most  solemnly,  that  I  will  be  a  kind 
and  faithful  mother  to  the  child." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  ma'am.  I  see  it  in  your 
face ;  and  the  gentleman  will  be  a  father  to  him 
also,  and  he  will  need  one  bad  enough,  poor  thing. 
Squire  Hall  did  talk  about  getting  a  pension  for 
him  by  and  by,  but  I  have  not  much  faith  in  it, 
for  there  will  be  many  a  pension  wanting  if  this 
war  keeps  on.  I  think  I  will  let  him  go,  if  he 
likes  the  thought  himself.  I  cannot  force  him  to 
leave  me." 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  the  gentleman.  "We 
will  call  him,  and  see  what  he  has  to  say  about  it." 

So  Willie  was  called,  and  Mrs.  Allen  asked  him 
if  he  would  like  to  go  far  away  and  live  with  the 
lady  and  gentleman,  and  he  again  replied  that  he 
should,  if  she  was  willing  ;  adding  earnestly,  — 

"If  I  may  take  my  mother's  little  Bible  and  my 
slate  and  pencil  with  me." 

u  You  can  take  anything  you  please,  clear,"  was 
the  kind  reply. 

The  gentleman  then  explained  to  Mrs.  Allen 
that  they  should  be  obliged  to  take  the  child  with 


The  Soldiers  Boy.  23 

them  immediately,  as  they  were  to  take  the  night 
train  for  the  West,  at  the  neighboring  town. 

"  He  will  need  no  clothing  excepting  the  suit 
which  you  wish  him  to  wear,"  he  continued,  "  as 
we  shall  provide  suitably  for  him." 

"  But  there  are  some  things  in  the  house  which 
belong  to  him,"  said  Mrs.  Allen.  "All  that  would 
sell  was  sold,  but  some  things  were  left,  and  those 
I  brought  here." 

"  Keep  all  excepting  such  little  remembrances 
of  his  parents  as  you  think  the  child  would  most 
value,"  replied  the  gentleman.  "  He  will  need 
nothing  more." 

Little  Willie's  parcel  was  soon  made  up,  —  he 
was  neatly  dressed  in  his  best  suit,  and  after  an 
affectionate  good-by  to  Mrs.  Allen  and  the  chil- 
dren, was  lifted  into  the  carriage  where  the  lady 
was  already  seated. 

"  One  thing  more,"  said  the  gentleman,  as  he 
was  about  to  step  in  himself;  "I  will  give  you 
my  card.  Mrs.  Allen,  with  my  name  and  address; 
and  then  if  at  any  time  any  relatives  of  the  child 
should  appear,  they  will  know  where  to  find  me." 

u  There  is  little  danger  of  that,  sir,"  was  the 
reply ;  but  the  gentleman  took  a  card  from  his 


24  Willie  Benton;  or, 

pocket-book  and  handed  it  to  the  good  woman, 
and  at  the  same  time  pressed  into  her  hand  a  bank- 
note. 

Then,  without  waiting  for  her  thanks,  he  stepped 
into  the  carriage,  and  in  another  moment  they 
were  driven  rapidly  away. 

Another  year  passed  away.  Mrs.  Allen  contin- 
ued to  occupy  the  same  cottage,  and  there  were 
new  neighbors  in  what  had  once  been  the  home 
of  Mr.  Benton  and  his  family. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  summer's  afternoon, 
and  Mrs.  Allen  was  sitting  on  the  step  of  the  cot- 
tage door,  enjoying  the  cool  breeze,  and  watching 
the  sports  of  the  children  who  were  playing  near 
her,  when  she  observed  a  stranger  slowly  winding 
his  way  up  the  narrow  path  which  led  to  the  cot- 
tage. He  was  dressed  in  soldier's  clothes  ;  and  as 
he  drew  nearer,  she  observed  that  he  looked  very 
pale  and  feeble,  as  if  he  had  suffered  much,  either 
from  wounds  or  ill-health.  She  thought,  also,  that 
there  was  something  familiar  in  his  face  and  form  ; 
but  it  was  not  until  he  stood  directly  before  her, 
extending  his  hand,  and  saying,  "  Do  you  not 
know  me,  Mrs.  Allen?"  that  she  recognized  one 


The  Soldiers  Boy.  25 

whom  she  had  so  long  believed  to  be  dead — the 
father  of  little  Willie. 

The  good  woman  was  so  overcome  by  surprise 
and  emotion  that  she  could  not  speak  a  word,  but 
held  out  her  hand,  which  Mr.  Benton  grasped 
warmly. 

"  I  see  you  know  me  now,"  he  said.  "  It  is  not 
strange  that  you  did  not  recognize  me  at  first,  for 
I  must  have  sadly  changed.  Where  is  my  dear 
bov,  Mrs.  Allen?  I  have  been  told  of  the  death 
of  my  wife,  and  that  you  had  kindly  protected  my 
poor  Willie,  but  I  do  not  see  him  among  your  chil- 
dren. Surely,  surely,  he  has  not  gone  from  me 
also !  "  and  the  poor  man  leaned  against  the  door 
for  support,  and  groaned  aloud. 

'•Xo,  no,  Mr.  Benton,  not  so;  sit  down,  and  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  it ; "  and  rousing  herself  at 
the  sight  of  his  grief,  Mrs.  Allen  brought  a  chair 
from  the  cottage,  and  kindly  bade  him  be  seated. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Benton,  you  must  not  blame 
me  "  she  said  earnestly,  "for  indeed  I  did  what  I 
thought  would  be  best  for  little  Willie.  You  know 
we  all  believed  you  to  be  dead." 

"  Yes,  I  was  left  for  dead  on  the  field  of  battle, 
but  life  was  not  really  gone,  and  I  was  taken  pris- 


26  Willie  Benton;  or, 

oner.  I  have  suffered  everything,  Mrs.  Allen,  but 
I  could  have  forgotten  it  all  if  my  wife  and  child 
had  only  been  hei'e  to  welcome  my  return  ; "  and 
again  the  poor  worn-out  soldier  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands,  and  seemed  overcome  with  grief. 

"  Take  comfort,"  said  Mrs.  Allen,  wiping  her 
own  eyes;  "your  wife  was  like  an  angel  while 
she  lived  in  this  world,  and  now  she  has  gone  to 
be  with  them." 

"  But  my  boy,  Mrs.  Allen,  if  he  still  lives, 
where  is  he?  I. do  so  long  to  hold  him  in  my 
arms  once  more." 

Thus  urged,  Mrs.  Allen  told  the  whole  story, 

• 
and  the  father  listened  with  eager  interest. 

As  she  concluded,  the  good  woman  again  said, 
"  You  must  not  blame  me,  Mr.  Benton.  The 
child  was  lonely  with  us.  You  know  very  well 
that  we  are  more  like  poor  folks  than  you  and 
your  wife  ever  were,  and  Willie  did  not  take  to  us 
kindly.  And  then  it  was  very  hard  struggling 
along,  and  I  felt  afraid  that  we  might  all  come  to 
want.  And  the  stranger  gentleman  seemed  so 
good  and  kind,  and  the  sweet  lady  spoke  so  gently. 
Willie  loved  her,  Mr.  Benton,  and  said  she  was 
like  his  mother.  So  I  let  the  child  go ;  and  as  we 


The  Soldier's  Boy.  27 

parted,  the  gentleman  slipped  a  fifty  dollar  bill  into 
my  hand.  How  much  it  helped  us,  and  how  often 
I  have  prayed  for  a  blessing  upon  him  for  his  kind- 
ness!  But  I  did  not  expect  it  —  indeed  I  did  not, 
Mr.  Benton.  I  would  never  have  thought  of  sell- 
ing little  Willie." 

Mr.  Benton  had  seemed  to  be  lost  in  deep 
thought;  but  he  now  roused  himself  and  said, — 

"  Where  is  the  card  that  the  stranger  left  with 
you,  Mrs.  Allen,  with  his  name  and  address  upon 
it?  I  think  you  said  that  he  gave  it  to  you." 

"And  so  he  did,  for  he  said  some  one  might  be 
asking  for  the  child ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  this,  and  I  was  so  flustered 
when  I  found  that  he  had  given  me  a  fifty  dollar 
bill,  that,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  never  thought  of 
the  card  for  two  or  three  days,  and  then  I  could 
find  nothing  of  it.  I  must  have  dropped  it  some- 
where." 

"And  can  you  not  remember  the  name,  or 
where  they  lived?"  asked  Mr.  Benton. 

"  The  name  I  never  asked,  and  I  did  not  read 
the  card.  He  lived  out  West  somewhere,  in  Ohio, 
I  think  ;  yes,  I  am  quite  sure  it  was  Ohio." 

And   with   this   unsatisfactory   information   Mr. 


28  Willie  Benton;  or, 

Benton  was  obliged  to  be  content.  He  did  not 
blame  Mrs.  Allen,  for  he  felt  that  she  had  done 
what  she  believed  to  be  her  duty. 

After  considering  the  matter,  and  consulting 
with  others,  he  decided  to  go  at  once  to  Ohio, 
and  try  to  obtain  employment  somewhere  in  the 
central  part  of  the  State.  He  then  intended  to 
put  such  an  advertisement  in  all  the  principal 
papers  as  would  be  likely  to  obtain  for  him  some 
information  respecting  the  child,  if  the  gentleman 
who  had  taken  him  was  really  a  resident  of  Ohio. 

This  plan  he  carried  into  effect,  and  in  a  short 
time  he  had  found  employment  in  one  of  the  most 
flourishing  cities  in  the  State. 

Late  one  afternoon,  when  the  usual  business  of 
the  day  was  at  an  end,  he  took  a  walk  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  for  he  had  as  yet  had  but  little 
leisure  to  look  around,  and  there  was  much  that 
was  new  and  interesting  to  be  seen. 

As  he  walked  along,  he  thought  a  good  deal  of 
his  advertisement  which  he  was  intending  to  put 
in  the  papers  the  next  day.  Finally  he  took  a 
pencil  and  slip  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  foot  of  a  majestic  old  oak,  began 
to  write.  He  was  now  upon  the  grounds  belong- 


The  Soldiers  Boy.  29 

ing  to  a  very  pleasant  country  seat ;  but  as  the 
house  stood  far  back  from  the  road,  and  the  place 
where  he  was  sitting  was  very  retired,  he  thought 
he  should  be  quite  unobserved. 

He  had  been  writing  but  a  few  moments  when 
a  slight  noise  attracted  his  attention,  and  looking 
up  he  saw  seated  at  the  foot  of  another  tree,  at  a 
short  distance  from  him,  a  pleasant  looking  little 
boy,  who,  like  himself,. was  busy  with  a  pencil  and 
piece  of  paper. 

"What  a  dear  little  fellow,"  thought  Mr.  Ben- 
ton,  with  a  sigh.  "  He  must  be  just  about  the  age 
of  my  Willie.  I  wonder  what  he  is  doing." 

The  boy  seemed  equally  curious  to  know  what 
the  stranger  was  doing,  for  he  frequently  raised  his 
eyes,  and  looked  at  him  very  earnestly. 

At  length  Mr.  Benton  spoke  to  him. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  little  fellow  ?  " 

"Willie  Atwood,  sir,"  was  the  reply.  "I  am 
drawing  a  picture.  Are  you  drawing  one  ?  " 

';  Xo,  my  little  man,  I  was  writing,"  replied  Mr. 
Benton.  smiling  at  the  artless  simplicity  of  the 
child.  "  But  I  should  like  to  see  your  picture.  I 
had  a  little  boy  once  and  he  used  to  draw  pictures 


30  Willie  Benton;  or, 

for  me.  His  name  was  Willie,  too,"  and  Mr.  Ben- 
ton  again  sighed. 

"  Did  your  Willie  die?"  asked  the  child  gently. 

"  No,  dear,  he  did  not  die.  But  tell  me  where 
you  live.  Is  it  in  that  large  house  yonder?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  live  there  with  my  father  and  moth- 
er. I  am  all  the  little  boy  they  have  got." 

"They  must  love  you  very  much,  Willie.  But 
will  you  not  show  me  the  pi.cture?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have  just  finished  it.  Now  I  will 
show  it  to  you  ; "  and  as  the  child  spoke,  he  rose 
and  brought  his  paper  to  the  stranger. 

Mr.  Benton  gazed  at  the  picture  with  great  sur- 
prise. It  seemed  to  him  a  perfect  representation 
of  the  cottage  where  he  had  once  lived  so  happily 
with  his  wife  and  child.  Even  the  wren-house 
which  he  had  taken  so  much  pleasure  in  building 
for  his  little  Willie,  was  distinctly  visible  on  its  tall 
pole  not  far  from  the  cottage  door.  An  elm-tree 
shaded  the  cottage,  and  a  little  boy  was  sitting  on 
the  step  of  the  door.  It  was  a  wonderful  drawing 
for  so  young  a  child,  but  Mr.  Benton  thought  not 
of  the  beauty  of  the  drawing.  It  was  the  scene 
represented,  that  so  excited  his  wonder. 


The  Soldiers  Boy.  31 

Before  he  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  his  sur- 
prise to  ask  anv  questions,  the  little  bov  said. — 

'•  That  is  a  picture  of  my  old  home.  That  is 
the  wren-house  which  my  father  made  for  me."  he 
continued,  pointing  with  his  finger,  "  and  this  is 
me  sitting  on  the  door-step  watching  for  my  father 
to  come  from  his  work.  He  had  not  gone  to  the 
war  then." 

Mr.  Benton  grew  more  and  more  bewildered. 
"  Did  you  not  say  that  your  father  lives  in  that 
large  house?"  he  said  at  last,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty. 

;-  Yes.  my  nc-jj  father.  Mr.  Atwood,"  replied  the 
child,  ''butl  am  telling  you  about  my  old  father. 
He  was  killed  in  the  war," 

t;  And  what  was  his  name,  Willie?"  said  Mr. 
Benton,  hardly  able  to  restrain  himself  from  clasp- 
ing the  child  to  his  heart,  for  he  already  felt  sure 
that  he  had  found  his  lost  Willie. 

••  My  name  was  Willie  Benton,  then,"  was  the 
reply.  "My  father  was  Mr.  Benton;  I  think  he 
looked  like  you,  only  he  was  not  so  thin  and  pale." 

Willie  had  no  time  to  say  more,  for  he  found 
himself  in  the  arms  of  the  stranger,  and  felt  some- 
what alarmed  at  his  kisses  and  embraces. 


32  Willie  Bent  on;  or, 

"  Do  you  not  know  me,  my  darling?  I  am  your 
father  come  back  from  the  war." 

"And  is  my  mother  here  too?"  exclaimed  the 
child.  "  They  told  me  you  were  both  in  heaven. 
Oh,  I  am  so  glad !  "  and  little  Willie  clasped  his 
arms  around  his  father's  neck,  and  sobbed  for  joy. 

"Your  mother  is  in  heaven,  my  own  dear  boy, 
but  I  was  taken  prisoner,  and  not  killed,  as  was 
supposed.  When  I  got  home  and  found  that  your 
dear  mother  had  died,  and  that  you  had  gone  far 
away,  I  came  to  this  State  to  look  for  you.  But 
are  you  happy  where  you^are,  WTillie  ?  Are  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Atwood  kind  to  you?" 

"  Oh,  very,  very  kind,"  said  Willie.  "  They 
love  me  dearly,  and  I  love  them.  Come  now,  and 
I  will  show  you  to  them,"  he  continued,  taking  his 
father's  hand  and  trying  to  draw  him  along. 

"  I  fear  they  will  not  be  so  glad  to  see  me  as  you 
are,  Willie,"  replied  Mr.  Benton,  rising,  and  walk- 
ing along  with  the  little  boy.  „ 

"  Oh,  they  will,  I  am  very  sure.  Mother  always 
talks  to  me  of  ^you  and  of  my  own  dear  mother, 
and  she  reads  to  me  from  the  same  little  Bible,  and 
hears  me  say  my  prayers." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Atwood  did  indeed  give  Mr.  Ben- 


The  Soldier's  Boy.  33 

ton  a  hearty  welcome,  although  they  felt  grieved 
at  the  thought  that  their  adopted  child,  to  whom 
they  both  felt  most  tenderly  attached,  might  be 
taken  from  them.  But  Mr.  Benton  was  too  sensi- 
ble a  man  not  to  see  the  advantages  of  such  a 
home  for  his  child.  He  knew  how  much  Willie 
must  miss  the  love  and  care  of  his  mother,  and  he 
saw  that  Mrs.  Atwood  had  in  a  great  measure 
supplied  that  mother's  place.  He  was  therefore 
easily  persuaded  by  Mr.  Atwood  to  allow  Willie  to 
remain  with  them,  while  he  was  so  situated  as  to 
see  him  daily.  Mr.  Atwood  was  wealthy  and  in- 
fluential, and  he  easily  obtained  an  excellent  situ- 
ation for  Mr.  Benton,  well  suited  to  his  tastes  and 
capacity. 

WTillie  loved  both  his  old  father  and  his  new 
father  very  dearly  ;  and  while  he  often  thought  and 
spoke  of  his  dear  mother  in  heaven,  he  was  very 
happy  under  the  care  of  the  new  mother  whom 
the  Lord  had  so  me  cifully  provided  for  him. 
3 


SIXTT  MINUTES  MAKE  ONE 
HOUR. 

"  Sixty  seconds  make  a  minute, 

Time  enough  to  tie  my  shoe; 
Sixty  minutes  make  an  hour, 

Shall  it  pass  with  naught  to  do?" 


HUS  sung  little  Maiy  Goodwin,  as 
she  entered  the  parlor  where  her 
father  and  mother  were  sitting  one 
pleasant  summer  morning ;  'but  she 
stopped  when  she  saw  that  her  father 
was  reading  the  newspaper,  for  she  had  been 
taught  to  carefully  avoid  interrupting  others.  She 
stood  by  her  father's  side,  waiting  patiently  till 
he  was  ready  to"  attend  to  her. 

Presently,  he  laid  the  paper  upon  the  table, 
and  said,  "  Well,  my  daughter,  are  you  going  to 
school?" 

"  Yes,  father,"  replied  Mary.     "  Will  you  please 
to  give  me  my  motto  for  this  week  ?  " 
34 


Sixty  Minutes )  etc.  35 

Mr.  Goodwin  was  in  the  habit  of  giving:  his 
little  girl  a  motto  every  Monday  morning,  which 
she  could  in  some  way  apply  to  her  conduct  during 
the  week.  He  had  been  reading  so  busily,  that 
he  had  forgotten  t&  select  one  that  morning,  and 
when  Mary  reminded  him  of  it,  he  hesitated  for 
a  few  moments,  as  if  at  a  loss  what  to  say. 

"  The  verse  that  Mary  was  singing  wouH  make 
a  good  motto,"  remarked  Mrs.  Goodwin,  as  she 
called  Mary  to  her  side,  and  smoothed  back  her 
hair,  and  tied  her  cape-bonnet  more  neatlv,  for 
she  was  a  careless  little  girl,  and  seldom  remem- 
bered to  pin  her  shawl  even,  or  tie  her  bonnet  in 
a  nice  bow-knot.  One  corner  of  the  shawl  fre- 
quently hung  a  quarter  of  a  yard  below  the  other, 
and  the  bonnet  was  sometimes  not  tied  at  all,  or, 
at  best,  there  was  but  one  bow  to  be  seen,  while 
the  other  string  hung  carelessly  at  the  side. 

"  Why  mother,"  exclaimed  Mary,  "  what  a  funny 
motto !  I  should  not  learn  anything  new  from 
that.  Everybody  knows  that  sixty  seconds  make 
a  minute,  and  that  sixty  minutes  make  an  hour." 

"  A  great  many  people  know  it,  but  very  few 
recollect  it  in  a  way  to  make  the  knowledge  of 
any  use  to  them,"  replied  her  father.  "  I  think  it 


36  Sixty  Minutes 

will  be  an  excellent  motto  for  you,  and  for  your 
brother  Frank  also.  Indeed,  it  would  do  us  all 
good  to  remember  that  even  one  minute  of  time 
is  long  enough  to  enable  us  to  do  something  useful 
to  ourselves  or  others,  if  it  is  only  to  tie  a  shoe." 

"  That  is  not  very  useful,  father,"  said  Mary, 
laughing.  "  It  is  a  very  small  use." 

"  And  a  minute  is  but  a  very  small  portion  of 
time,"  replied  Mr.  Goodwin;  "but  if  we  perform 
a  small  use,  as  you  call  it,  every  minute,  we  shall 
find  that  we  have  been  of  very  great  use  at  the 
end  of  a  day." 

Mary  still  looked  a  little  dissatisfied  with  her 
motto,  and  said  she  should  not  know  how  to 
apply  it. 

"  I  will  tell  you  one  way,"  said  her  father,  "  and 
when  you  have  put  that  into  practice,  we  will 
think  of  other  ways.  Every  time  that  you  are 
tempted  to  be  idle  for  a  few  seconds  or  minutes 
in  school  to-day,  remember  your  motto,  and  try  to 
spend  every  instant  in  learning  or  doing  something 
useful.  I  suppose  you  would  think  it  very  wrong 
if  you  should  see  one  of  your  school-mates  pass 
an  hour  in  idleness  or  play,  when  she  ought  to 
attend  to  her  lessons ;  but,  if  you  are  watchful  of 


Make   One  Hour.  37 

yourself,  you  will  find  that  you  often  neglect  your 
studies  for  a  few  minutes,  without  thinking  that 
you  are  doing  wrong ;  but  recollect  that  if  you 
do  this  several  times  in  the  course  of  a  day,  the 
number  of  minutes  will  soon  amount  to  sixty,  and 
then  one  misspent  hour  will  have  gone,  never  to 
return." 

Mary  had  read  a  little  book  called  the  Well- 
Spent  Hour,  and  when  her  father  spoke  of  a 
misspent  hour,  it  brought  this  story  to  her  mind, 
and  she  said,  "  Father,  I  will  try  to  have  all  my 
minutes  well-spent  minutes,  and  all  my  hours  well- 
spent  hours." 

"  That  is  a  good  resolution,"  replied  her  father, 
kissing  her  affectionately  ;  "  and  now  go  to  school, 
and  this  evening  you  may  tell  me  if  you  have  found 
your  motto  of  use  to  you  during  the  day." 

As  Mary  left  the  house  she  met  her  brother 
Frank,  who  had  been  of  an  errand  for  his  father. 
He  had  a  large  package  of  books  in  his  hands. 

"  Please  to  run  up  the  steps  again,  Mary,  and 
open  the  door  for  me,"  said  he.  "It  will  delay 
you  but  a  minute." 

"And  it  will  do  some  good,"  said  Mary;  and 
she  told  her  brother  about  her  motto,  and  that  she 


38  Sixty  Minutes 

meant  to  try  to  improve  every  minute  through  the 
day.  Frank  was  two  years  older  than  Mary,  a 
fine,  intelligent  boy  of  eleven,  and  he  said  he  be- 
lieved he  knew  several  ways  in  which  it  would 
be  useful  to  them  to  recollect  this  motto,  but,  as 
it  was  nearly  time  for  school  to  begin,  it  would 
not  do  to  talk  about  it  then.  So  they  bade  each 
other  good  morning,  and  Mary  walked  quickly 
away,  for  she  did  not  wish  to  grieve  her  teacher 
by  being  late. 

Miss  Ainsworth  was  very  desirous  to  have  all 
her  pupils  punctual,  and  was  always  careful  to  set 
them  a.  good  example  herself,  by  being  at  the 
school-house  in  season,  and  having  everything 
prepared  for  the  duties  of  the  day  before  nine 
o'clock,  at  which  hour  school  commenced. 

As  Mary  was  tripping  merrily  along,  she  saw 
one  of  her  school-mates  at  a  short  distance  before 
her.  She  was  a  pleasant  little  girl,  named  Ellen 
Brown,  and  Mary  was  glad  to  overtake  her. 

Ellen  was  so  busily  engaged  in  picking  black- 
berries, that  she  did  not  see  Mary  until  she  stood 
close  by  her  side. 

"  O,  Mary!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  almost  fright- 
ened me.  I  did  not  hear  your  step.  See  what 


Make  One  Hour.  39 

nice  ripe  berries  I  have  found.  Stop  a  few  min- 
utes and  help  me  fill  the  basket,  and  then  I  will 
give  you  half  of  all  I  have  gathered." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mary,  looking  with  much 
pleasure  at  a  small  basket  which  Ellen  held  in 
her  hand,  about  half  full  of  large  ripe  berries  ;  and 
she  laid  her  book  and  slate  under  a  tree,  and  began 
to  help  Ellen. 

"  I  have  done  all  my  sums,"  said  Ellen,  who 
was  in  the  same  class  in  arithmetic  as  Mary ; 
"  and  our  table  is  very  easy  this  morning.  It  is 
about  time,  and  we  can  almost  say  it  without 
studying.  Sixty  seconds  make  a  minute,  sixty 
minutes  make  an  hour,  twenty-four  hours  make 

a " 

But  here  Ellen  was  interrupted  by  Mary,  who, 

hastily  tossing   the  berries  she  had  gathered  into 

the  basket,  took  her  book  and  slate,  and  said,  — 

"  Come,  Ellen,  I   must  go   this   moment.     We 

shall  be  late  at  school." 

••  Why,    Marv,  we   have    not   filled   the   basket 

yet.     You  said  you  would  help  me."     And  Ellen 

looked  a  little  displeased  at  Mary's  abrupt  manner. 

"  I  remembered  my  motto  for  this  week,"  replied 

Mary-      u  Sixty  seconds   make   a   minute,      Time 


40  Sixty  Minutes 

enough  to  tie  my  shoe.  You  know  the  verse, 
Ellen.  I  cannot  stop  now,  because  father  told  me 
to  try  not  to  waste  a  moment  of  time  to-day.  I 
will  ask  mother  to  let  me  pick  berries  after  school." 
"  They  will  all  be  gone  then,"  said  Ellen  ;  but 
she  took  her  basket  and  followed  Mary,  and  they 
walked  along  together,  talking  about  the  motto. 

"  You  know,  Ellen,"  said  Mary,  "  that  often 
when  we  think  we  will  stop  but  a  few  minutes, 
the  time  passes  so  quickly  and  pleasantly  that  we 
stay  much  longer  than  we  intended.  Now  as  it 
takes  but  sixty  minutes  to  make  an  hour,  if  we 
waste  a  few  minutes  this  morning,  and  a  few  more 
several  times  in  the  course  of  the  day,  an  hour 
will  soon  be  gone,  never  to  return,  as  father  told 
me  this  morning." 

Ellen  had  recovered  her  good-humor,  and  she 
told  Mary  that  she  would  still  give  her  half  of  the 
berries,  and  that  if  their  mothers  were  willing, 
they  could  go  to  Blackberry  Hill  after  school  in 
the  afternoon,  and  there  they  could  gather  a  quart 
in  a  short  time. 

The  girls  had  now  reached  the  school-house.  It 
was  a  very  neat  little  building,  with  a  small  gar- 
den in  front,  which  the  scholars  took  great  delight 


Make  One  Hour.    .  41 

in  cultivating,  and  it  was  now  full  of  beautiful 
flowers.  Behind  the  school-house  there  was  a 
small  enclosure  for  a  play-ground,  which  was 
beautifully  shaded  by  two  large  elm-frees. 

Maiy  and  Ellen  were. glad  that  they  had  not 
stopped  any  longer  to  gather  berries,  for  their 
teacher  stood  at  the  door  with  a  small  bell  in  her 
hand,  and,  as  soon  as  she  had  bade  them  good 
morning,  she  rung  it  loudly,  so  that  all  the  schol- 
ars who  were  on  the  play-ground,  or  in  any  of  the 
pleasant  lanes  near  the  house,  could  hear  it.  In 
a  few  minutes  a  great  many  little  girls  were  seen 
hastening  along  from  different  directions,  and  very 
soon  they  were  all  quietly  seated  at  their  desks 
with  their  Bibles  open  before  them,  «ready  for 
morning  worship.  Just  then,  the  old-fashioned 
clock,  which  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
struck  nine,  for  Miss  Ainsworth  always  rung  the 
bell  when  the  hand  pointed  to  ten  minutes  of  nine, 
and  this  gave  the  girls  time  to  take  off  their  bon- 
nets and  shawls,  and  take  their  seats  in  an  orderly 
manner  before  the  proper  hour  for  school  to  com- 
mence. 

Mary  frequently  thought  of  her  motto  during 
the  day,  and  found  it  very  useful  in  reminding  her 


42  Sixty  Minutes 

not  to  be  idle,  and  also  in  some  other  ways.  Once 
it  prevented  her  from  saying  what  was  not  strictly 
true.  The  class  in  geography  had  a  lesson  to  learn 
which  was  quite  difficult,  and  their  teacher  re- 
quested them  to  study  it  diligently  for  an  hour. 
When  the  class  was  called  to  recite,  Miss  Ains- 
worth  said,  "  How  many  of  you  have  studied  this 
lesson  an  hour?"  Nearly  all  the  girls  raised  their 
hands  to  show  that  they  had  done  so,  and  Mary 
was  about  raising  hers,  when  she  recollected  her 
motto,  "  Sixty  minutes  make  an  hour,"  and  she 
said,  "  I  do  not  think  that  I  have  studied  quite 
sixty  minutes,  for  I  looked  out  of  the  window 
once  or  twice." 

Her  teacher  told  her  that  she  was  glad  she  was 
so  careful  to  speak  the  exact  truth,  and  several  of 
the  girls  who  had  raised  their  hands,  when  they 
heard  what  Mary  said,  and  remembered  how  many 
minutes  it  took  to  make  an  hour,  acknowledged  that 
they  had  not  studied  quite  an  hour.  Thus  Mary 
not  only  did  what  was  right  herself,  but  helped 
others  to  do  so  also. 

Another  time  she  had  forgotten  her  motto,  and 
was  busily  engaged  in  cutting  figures  out  of  a  bit 
pf  colored  paper  which  she  had  found  on  her  desk, 


Make  One  Hour.  43 

when  a  very  little  girl,  who  sat  on  a  low  seat  near 
to  her,  whispered,  ';  Mary,  please  to  tie  my  shoe." 
These  words  reminded  Mary  of  her  resolution  to 
perform  some  use,  however  small,  every  minute 
in  the  day,  and  she  blushed  to  think  she  should 
have  so  soon  forgotten  it.  She  put  away  her  paper, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  was  very  studious  and 
industrious. 

After  school  in  the  afternoon  she  had  a  pleasant 
walk  with  Ellen  to  Blackberry  Hill,  and  took  a 
large  basket  of  berries  home  to  her  mother. 

She  was  glad  when*  it  was  evening,  so  that  she 
might  talk  with  her  father  about  her  motto,  and  as 
soon  as  the  lamps  were  lighted,  she  ran  for  her 
brother  Frank,  who  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen 
making  a  boat,  and  said,  "  Come,  Frank,  let  us 
go  into  the  parlor  now,  and  talk  with  father." 

•;  In '  one  minute,  Marv,"  replied  Frank,  "  as 
soon  as  I  have  smoothed  this  bowsprit.  Wait  for 
me  just  one  minute." 

Mary  waited  live  minutes,  and  still  Frank  was 
not  ready,  and  she  began  to  be  impatient. 

••  You  forget  that  sixty  seconds  make  a  minute," 
she  said.  "  It  is  not  right  to  say  that  you  will  be 
ready  in  one  minute,  when  you  mean  five  or  ten." 


44  Sixty  Minutes 

"  That  is  what  my  teacher  would  call  a  very  just 
observation,"  replied  Frank,  smiling;  and  he  put 
away  his  boat  and  tools,  and  went  with  Mary  into 
the  parlor. 

Then  Mary  told  her  father  in  what  ways  she  had 
found  her  motto  useful  through  the  day.  "  Was  it 
not  strange,  father,"  she  asked,  "  that  whenever  I 
was  in  danger  of  forge-tting  my  motto,  something 
would  always  happen  to  remind  me  of  it?  This 
morning,  when  I  stopped  on  my  way  to  school  to 
pick  berries,  Ellen  began  to  repeat  the  table  of 
time  which  was  in  our  arithmetic  lesson  for  to-day, 
and  that  reminded  me  of  my  motto.  Another 
time,  when  I  was  playing  in  school,  little  Clara 
Winslow  asked  me  to  tie  her  shoe,  which  brought 
the  verse  to  my  mind  at  once." 

"  I  do  not  think  this  was  strange,  Mary,"  replied 
her  father,  "  although  it  is  certainly  very  affecting 
and  delightful  to  think  how  constantly  the  Lord 
watches  over  us,  and  endeavors  to  lead  us  to  do 
right.  You  know  that  the  good  spirits  around  you 
are  always  imparting  to  you  good  thoughts  and 
feelings,  and  trying  to  make  you  good  and  happy. 
To-day  you  were  really  in  the  desire  to  be  led  by 
them,  and  to  employ  your  time  usefully  ;  and  when 


Make  One  Hour.  45 

you  sometimes  forgot  your  resolution  for  a  few 
moments,  the  angels  who  were  guarding  you  from 
evil,  induced  your  companions  to  say  something 
which  brought  your  motto  to  your  mind,  and  thus 
reminded  you  of  your  duty." 

Mary  did  not  reply  to  what  her  father  said,  but 
her  heart  was  filled  with  gratitude  to  the  Lord  for 
His  goodness  in  keeping  His  angels  around  her  to 
guard  her  from  evil,  and  she  prayed  that  she  might 
be  led  wholly  by  them. 

Frank  broke  the  silence  by  saying  that  he  had 
observed  one  way  in  which  it  would  be  useful  for 
every  one  to  remember  the  motto.  He  Jiad  been 
to  a  large  town  that  day  on  some  business  for  his 
father,  and  he  related  several  instances  of  want  of 
punctuality  and  exactness  in  keeping  promises. 
One  gentleman  from  whom  he  was  to  receive  some 
money,  told  him  to  call  in  an  hour  from  the  time 
he  first  went  there,  and  he  would  have  it  ready  for 
him. 

Frank  called  at  the  proper  time,  but  the  gen- 
tleman had  gone  out,  and  he  was  obliged  to  wait 
nearly  another  hour,  before  he  could  receive  the 
money. 

"  I  thought  he  had  forgotten  how  many  minutes 


46  Sixty  Minutes 

it  takes  to  make  an  hour,"  said  Frank  ;  "  and  very 
soon  I  met  with  another  gentleman,  who  really  did 
not  appear  to  know  how  many  seconds  it  takes  to 
make  a  minute,  for  when  I  delivered  your  note  to 
him.  father,  he  said,  'Sit  down  a  minute,  my  boy, 
and  I  will  attend  to  you,'  and  he  kept  me  waiting 
more  than  half  an  hour." 

Mary  laughed  a  little  as  Frank  said  this,  for  she 
remembered  how  he  had  kept  her  waiting  while 
he  worked  on  his  boat,  and  Frank  smiled  'also,  for 
he  thought  of  the  same  thing. 

"  It  is  very  common  to  say  that  we  will  be  ready 
in  a  minute,  when  we  mean  a  somewhat  longer 
time,"  said  Mr.  Goodwin,  "  but  it  is  much  better 
to  try  to  speak  the  exact  truth  in  this,  as  in  all 
things.  The  principal  way,  however,  in  which  I 
wish  your  motto  to  be  useful  to  you,  is  in  remind- 
ing you  of  the  great  importance  of  improving 
every  mimute  of  your  time.  It  is  wrong  to  waste 
even  the  smallest  portion  of  time,  for  even  one 
minute  is  often  sufficient  to  enable  us  to  perform 
some  act  of  usefulness.  Only  think  how  much 
good  we  could  do  in  a  year  if  we  rightly  improved 
every  minute ! " 


Make  One  Hour.  47 

"Do  you  suppose  any  person  ever  improved 
every  minute  of  a  year,  father?  "  asked  Frank. 

"  I  think  not,  Frank,  but  some  persons  come 
much  nearer  doing  so  than  others.  •  We  should 
regard  our  time  as  belonging  to  the  Lord,  and  to 
be  spent  in  such  a  way  as  to  enable  us  to  become 
mediums  of-His  good  and  truth  ;  that  is,  we  should 
constantly  try  to  learn  and  do  what  will  make  us 
the  most  useful  in  this  world,  and  hereafter  in  the 
spiritual  world.  The  love  of  use  constitutes  the 
happiness  of  the  angels  of  heaven." 

"  Then  the  more  we  try  to  be  useful,  the  more 
we  become  like  the  angels,  do  we  not,  father?" 
asked  Mary. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  her  father.  "  The  angels 
are  continually  endeavoring  to  lead  us  to  perform 
uses,  and  the  more  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  led 
by  them,  the  more  like  them  we  become." 

"  And  when  we  die  we  shall  be  happy  with 
them,  forever.  That  is  what  my  catechism  says," 
said  Mary.  "  I  should  like  to  be  an  angel,  father, 
and  I  will  try  to  improve  every  moment  in  learn- 
ing and  doing  something  useful." 

"  And  so  will  I  try,"  said  Frank ;  "  but  we  shall 


48  Sixty  Minutes 

forget  very  often,  Mary.  It  is  not  a  very  easy 
lesson  to  learn,  is  it,  father?  " 

"  Indeed  it  is  not,  my  son,"  replied  Mr.  Good- 
win, "  it  is  i'ery  difficult,  and  we  must  humbly 
look  to  the  Lord  for  help.  Without  His  aid  we 
cannot  even  try  to  do  good.  And  now  good-night, 
my  children,  and  may  the  Lord  enable  you  to  keep 
your  good  resolutions." 

Mary  rose  at  an  early  hour  the  next  morning, 
with  her  thoughts  filled  with  the  resolution  to  use- 
fully employ  every  moment.  But  she  met  with 
difficulties  which  somewhat  discouraged  her.  We 
have  already  spoken  of  her  careless  habits,  and 
these  she  found  very  troublesome  now  that  she  was 
endeavoring  not  to  waste  the  smallest  portion  of 
time.  Even  while  dressing  in  the  morning,  she 
was  delayed  nearly  half  an  hour,  because  her 
clothes  were  not  in  proper  order.  One  article 
wanted  a  button  and  another  a  string,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  stop  to  sew  them  on.  Then  one  shoe- 
string was  missing,  and  after  searching  for  it  some 
time,  Mary  recollected  having  seen  her  shoe  untied 
while  walking  with  Ellen  the  day  before  ;  and  as 
she  had  neglected  to  tie  it  then,  it  was  probably 
lost  before  she  reached  home.  She  applied  to  her 


Make  One  Hour.  49 

mother  for  another,  which  she  gave  her,  at  the 
same  time  reminding  her  that  even  one  minute 
was  sufficient  to  tie  a  shoe,  and  thus  the  loss  could 
generally  be  avoided. 

All  these  little  troubles  took  so  much  time,  that 
the  breakfast  bell  rung  before  Mary  was  quite 
ready,  and  she  felt  hurried  and  disturbed,  and  did 
not  derive  the  benefit  from  family  worship  which 
she  would  have  done,  had  her  mind  been  in  a  calm 
and  pleasant  state.  Many  other  troubles  resulting 
from  her  careless  habits  occurred  during  the  day, 
and  she  returned  from  school  feeling  very  sad,  and 
told  her  mother  that  she  feared  she  should  never 
be  like  the  angels,  for  she  had  done  very  little  that 
was  useful  that  day. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  Mary,"  replied  her  moth- 
er, "  but  you  must  not  be  discouraged  by  one  fail- 
ure. We  all  fail  many  times  in  our  efforts  to 
become  good.  Come  with  me  now  and  help  me 
prepare  our  tea,  and  this  evening  we  will  talk  of 
your  troubles,  and  try  to  ascertain  the  cause  of 
them." 

Mary  was  glad  to  be  of  any  use,  and  she  move'd 
briskly  around,  assisting  her  mother  in  every  pos- 
sible way  until  tea  was  upon  the  table. 
4 


50  Sixty  Minutes 

In  the  evening  her  father  and  brother  attended  a 
scientific  lecture  in  the  neighborhood,  and  Mary 
took  her  sewing,  and  seated  herself  by  her  mother's 
side. 

"  I  have  wasted  a  great  deal  of  time  to-day, 
mother,"  she  said.  "  This  morning  I  rose  very 
early  that  I  might  help  you  before  I  went  to 
school,  but  everything  went  wrong.  My  clothes 
were  not  in  order,  and  some  things  were  out  of 
place,  and  it  took  me  a  long  time  to  find  them.  At 
school  there  was  the  same  trouble.  My  slate  pen- 
cil was  not  in  the  little  box  which  you  gave  me  to 
keep  it  in,  and  I  looked  for  it  a  long  time  in  vain. 
At  last  I  found  it  in  a  book  in  which  I  was  reading 
yesterday.  I  remember  leaving  it  there  for  a  mark. 
Then  I  felt  in  a  hurry  about  my  sums,  and  there- 
fore did  many  of  them  wrong.  When  Miss  Alns- 
worth  handed  me  my  slate,  she  said,  '  The  mis- 
takes in  your  sums  are  entirely  from  carlessness, 
Mary.  You  evidently  know  how  to  do  them.' 

"  This  was  tiuc;  for  when  I  looked  them  over, 
I  found  that  in  some  places  in  subtraction,  I  had 
placed  the  greater  number  under  the  smaller, 
which  I  am  sure  I  knew  to  be  wrong. 

"  When  the  hour  for  sewing  arrived,  I  intended 


Make  One  Hour.  5 1 

to  be  very  industrious,  but  I  was  obliged  to  leave 
my  scat  for  a  moment,  and  carelessly  left  my  needle 
hanging  loosely  from  my  work.  When  I  returned, 
my  work  had  fallen  from  the  desk,  and  the  needle 
was  gone.  It  took  me  full  fifteen  minutes  to  find  it. 

t- 1  could  tell  you  a  great  manv  more  troubles, 
mother,  but  they  are  all  much  alike." 

••  And  may  all  be  attributed  to  one  cause,  may 
they  not.  Mary  ?  "  asked  her  mother. 

'•  I  suppose  they  mav,  mother.  My  carelessness, 
which  vou  have  so  often  talked  to  me  about,  is  the 
true  cause  of  all  inv  difficulties  to-day.  I  find  that 
I  can  never  learn  to  employ  every  moment  usefully 
until  I  learn  to  be  orderly  and  careful  in  my  habits. 
But,  mother,  is  it  not  strange  that  the  angels  have 
not  helped  me  to  do  right  to-day  ?  I  am  sure  I 
have  thought  of  my  motto,  and  should  have  been 
glad  to  have  improved  my  time." 

'•  There  are  manv  wavs  in  which  the  angels  help 
us,  dear  Marv,  even  when  we  are  the  least  sensible 
of  their  presence.  Before  you  can  become  useful 
to  yourself  or  others,  it  is  necessary  that  you  should 
be  brought  into  a  state  in  which  you  can  see  the 
evil  of  your  careless  and  disorderly  habits.  Your 
father  and  I  have  often  talked  to  you  about  this 


52  Sixty  Minutes 

fault,  and  endeavored  to  help  you  to  put  it  away ; 
but  it  has  been  difficult  to  make  you  aware  of  it 
yourself,  and  little  improvement  has  been  made. 
The  good  spirits  around  you  have  evidently  been 
endeavoring  to-day  to  bring  you  to  an  acknowl- 
edgment of  this  evil,  and  for  this  purpose  it 
was  necessary  that  you  should  meet  with  some 
troubles." 

"  But  I  feel  so  sorry,  mother,  that  I  have  lost  a 
day.  I  meant  to  be  so  very  useful." 

"  The  day  is  far  from  being  lost,  if  you  are  really 
convinced  of  the  sin  of  carelessness.  It  may  truly 
be  called  a  sin,  because  it  prevents  us  from  doing 
many  good  actions,  and  is  the  cause  of  much 
trouble  and  inconvenience  to  those  around  us.  If 
you  are  now  fully  aware  that  this  is  one  of  your 
faults,  and  are  sincerely  resolved  to  correct  it,  you 
may  regard  this  as  one  of  the  most  useful  days  of 
your  life." 

Mary's  countenance  brightened  at  this  view  of 
the  case,  and  she  said  earnestly,  "  I  do  mean  to 
tiy  to  be  orderly  and  careful,  dear  mother.  I  will 
begin  to-morrow,  and  you  shall  see  how  much  I 
will  improve  in  a  week." 

"  Begin  to-night,   Mary,"    replied   her   mother, 


Make  One  Hour.  53 

smiling ;  "be  sure  that  all  your  clothes  are  in  order 
for  the  morning,  so  that  the  misfortunes  of  to-day 
may  be  avoided.  A  short  time  ago,  I  put  every- 
thing belonging  to  you  in  neat  order ;  but  now  all 
is  confusion  again.  But  as  you  are  resolved  to  do 
better,  I  will  help  you  as  much  as  possible.  I  will 
show  you  a  place  for  everything,  and  you  must 
remember  to  keep  everything  in  its  proper  place." 

"  That  is  a  difficult  rule  to  obey,  mother.  I  am 
so  often  tempted  to  lay  my  things  down  for  a 
moment,  and  then  I  forget  to  put  them  away.  But 
I  will  try.  I  will  remember  the  motto  that  I  had 
a  few  weeks  ago  :  '  Patience  and  perseverance  ac- 
complish all  things.'  " 

•  "  Yes,  you  may  remember  that,  Mary,  but, 
above  all,  remember  to  look  to  the  Lord  for  help 
to  enable  you  to  put  away  this  and  all  your  evils. 
If  you  trust  to  your  own  strength,  you  can  do 
nothing." 

"  I  will  pray  to  Him  to  help  me,"  said  Mary, 
"  and  I  will  thank  Him  for  His  goodness  in  keep- 
ing His  angels  around  me  to  show  me  my  faults, 
and  to  help  me  put  them  away." 

Her  mother  kissed  her,  and  advised  her  to  go  to 
her  own  room  then,  that  she  might  have  time  to 


54  Sixty  Minutes 

arrange  her  clothes  properly,  and  to  rend  in  the 
Word  before  her  usual  hour  for  going  to  rest. 

The  next  three  days  were  happy  ones.  Mary 
kept  her  resolution  to  endeavor  to  be  orderly,  and 
she  found  that  thus  much  time  was  saved,  and  she 
could  do  many  useful  things  which  she  formerly 
thought  she  had  no  time  to  do.  It  is  true  that  she 
sometimes  indulged  in  her  former  careless  habits, 
but  a  word  from  her  mother  was  sufficient  to  re- 
mind her  of  her  resolution,  and  encourage  her  to 
persevere. 

Her  parents  and  her  brother  Frank  were  much 
pleased  with  the  change. 

•'  I  have  not  found  any  of  your  things  in  my  way 
for  two  or  three  days,  Mary,"  said  Frank.  "  You 
are  really  becoming  very  orderly.  Your  books  are 
all  neatly  arranged  on  your  shelves,  your  work- 
basket  is  in  its  place,  and  I  have  observed  that 
your  bonnet  and  shawl  arc  neatly  put  on  when  you 
go  out.  What  has  changed  you  so  suddenly?" 

"  Why,  Frank,"  replied  Mary,  "  I  found  that  I 
could  never  learn  to  employ  every  minute  usefully, 
until  I  became  more  orderly,  for  I  wasted  a  great 
deal  of  time  in  looking  for  things  which  were  out 
of  place.  Even  pinning  my  shawl  and  tying  my 


Make  One  Hour.  55 

bonnet  carelessly  wasted  time,  for  mother  always 
called  me  to  her,  and  fixed  them  properly.  You 
have  no  idea  how  many  things  I  find  time  to  do 
now.  See  this  silk  handkerchief  which  I  have 
nearly  hemmed  for  father,  and  this  pretty  purse 
which  I  am  knitting  for  somebody  !  " 

'•For  me,  perhaps,"  said  Frank,  examining  his 
sister's  work  with  pleasure. 

••I  shall  not  tell  you,"  replied  Mary.  "You 
will  know  in  proper  time ;  but  I  must  bid  you 
good-morning,  Frank,  for  it  is  nearly  school  time. 
To-day  is  Friday,  the  last  tlay  of  school  for  this 
week,  and  to-morrow  mother  has  promised  that  I 
shall  visit  cousin  Emily  if  I  am  a  good  girl." 

Saturday  proved  a  day  of  trial  to  Man*.  The 
morning  was  cloudy,  and  soon  after  breakfast  it 
began  to  rain.  Mary  had  anticipated  much  pleas- 
ure from  her  visit  to  her  cousin,  and  she  was  quite 
unprepared  for  the  disappointment.  She  stood  at 
the  window  watching  the  clouds  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  then  said,  "  It  does  not  rain  very  hard, 
mother.  If  I  take  an  umbrella  I  shall  not  get 
wet.  May  I  go?" 

••  Xo,  Mary,"  replied  her  mother.  "You  have 
quite  a  bad  cold,  and  it  is  a  long  walk  to  your 


56  Sixty  Minutes 

uncle's.  I  think  it  would  be  wrong  to  allow  you 
to  go  in  the  rain.  I  am  sorry  for  your  disappoint- 
ment ;  but  as  it  cannot  be  avoided,  T  advise  you  to 
think  no  more  of  j^our  visit,  but  try  to  spend  your 
holiday  usefully  and  happily  at  home." 

But  Mary  felt  sad  and  displeased,  and  was  not 
disposed  to  comply  with  her  mother's  advice.  She 
still  sat  by  the  window  watching  the  drops  of  rain 
which  fell  against  the  glass,  and  indulged  her  ill- 
humor  by  making  fretful  and  unpleasant  remarks. 

"  It  always  rains  when  I  wish  to  go  anywhere," 
she  said.  "  I  wish  ft  would  rain  some  other  day 
than  Saturday.-  Now  I  must  wait  another  week 
for  my  visit,  and  then,  I  dare  say,  it  will  rain 
again." 

Mrs.  Goodwin  took  little  notice  of  Mary,  hoping 
that  she  would  suffer  the  angels  to  draw  near  to 
her,  and  help  her  to  put  away  the  evil  state.  But 
after  some  time  had  passed,  and  she  still  continued 
in  the  same  fretful  mood,  she  said,  — 

"  You  have  forgotten  your  good  resolutions, 
Mary.  You  have  passed  the  last  half  hour  worse 
than  uselessly.  Our  Heavenly  Father  knows  what 
is  best  for  us.  He  maketh  the  sun  to  shine  and  the 


Make    One  Hour.  57 

rain  to  fall.  When  we  fret  about  the  weather,  we 
murmur  against  the  Lord." 

Mary  was  not  an  obstinate  child.  She  felt  the 
truth  of  her  mother's  words,  and  frankly  acknowl- 
edged her  fault. 

"  I  will  tiy  not  to  think  of  my  visit  any  more," 
she  said.  "  What  can  I  do  to  help  me  to  forget  it, 
mother?" 

"  When  we  feel  sad  from  any  cause,  the  best 
remedy  is  to  employ  ourselves  in  trying  to  make 
others  happy,"  replied  Mrs.  Goodwin.  "  If  we  do 
this  from  a  sincere  love  of  doing  good,  we  shall 
always  find  that  the  happiness  we  are  endeavoring 
to  impart  to  others,  is  received  by  ourselves  also." 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Mary,  cheerfully,  "  I  will 
help  you  all  I  can,  and  I  will  cover  Frank's  ball, 
and  make  a  frock  for  sister  Ella's  new  doll." 

Little  Ella  was  standing  by  a  chair  upon  which 
she  had  placed  her  little  cups  and  saucers,  and 
when  she  heard  Mary  speak  of  dressing  her  doll, 
she  looked  up  very  much  pleased.  Her  bright 
smile  made  Mary  feel  that  it  is  indeed  true  that 
giving  pleasure  to  others  makes  our  own  hearts 
happy ;  and  she  thought  no  more  of  the  rain  and 


58  Sixty  Minutes,  etc. 

her  disappointment,  but  employed  herself  usefully 
and  happily  all  the  morning. 

Her  mother's  cares  were  lightened.  Frank's  old 
ball  was  so  neatly  covered,  that  it  looked  like  a 
new  one,  and  a  pretty  little  frock  was  made  for 
Ella's  doll.  At  one  o'clock,  when  the  bell  called 
her  to  dinner,  Mary  was  surprised  to  observe 
that  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  sun  was  dimly 
shining  through  the  clouds. 

Soon  after  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  her 
father  told  her  that  he  was  going  to  a  town  at  some 
distance,  and  would  take  her  to  her  uncle's  in  the 
chaise,  and  call  for  her  at  an  early  hour  in  the 
evening. 

The  afternoon  passed  very  pleasantly  ;  the  more 
so  because  evil  feelings  had  been  conquered  in  the 
morning,  and  acts  of  usefulness  and  kindness  had 
been  performed. 

Mary  told  her  cousin  about  her  motto,  and  of 
the  use  it  had  been  to  her  through  the  week,  and 
they  both  resolved  to  remember  that  even  one 
minute  is  time  enough  to  do  some  good,  and  that 
sixty  well-spent  minutes  make  a  well-spent  hour. 


THE  LOST    KNIFE; 

OR, 
BEARING  FALSE    WITNESS. 

H AT  are  you  trying  to  make, 
Willie?"  said  Alfred  Goodwin,  as 
he  came  from  school  one  afternoon, 
and  found  his  little  brother  seated 
upon  the  door-step  whittling  a  stick 
with  an  old  case-knife  which  he  had  persuaded 
his  mother  to  lend  him  for  a  little  while. 

"  I  am  trying  to  make  a  windmill,"  replied 
Willie  ;  and  with  a  great  effort  he  succeeded  in 
cutting  quite  a  shaving  with  the  dull  old  knife. 
As  he  did  this,  he  looked  up  at  Alfred  with  a 
smile,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Did  you  see  me  do 
that?  Wasn't  that  a  big  shaving?" 

"  I    will     make    you    a    windmill,    if    you    like, 
Willie,"    said    Alfred,    good-naturedly ;    "  I     am 
59 


60  The  Lost  Knife;  or, 

used  to  making  windmills,  and  so  I  can  make 
good  ones." 

Willie  gratefully  accepted  the  offer,  and  handed 
Alfred  his  knife  and  sticks ;  but  Alfred  said  he 
could  find  wood  that  would  suit  him  better,  in 
the  barn ;  and  as  for  the  knife,  Willie  had  better 
carry  it  back  to  his  mother,  as  he  would  rather 
use  his  own  jack-knife. 

Some  soft  pieces  of  smooth  pine-wood  were 
soon  found,  for  Alfred  always  kept  a  good  stock 
on  hand,  and  then  he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his 
knife.  It  was  certainly  not  in  his  usual  pocket, 
but  perhaps  he  had  accidentally  slipped  it  into 
another.  Both  pants  and  jacket  were  carefully 
searched,  but  all  in  vain ;  no  knife  was  to  be 
found. 

"  Now  where  can  that  knife  be  !  "  exclaimed  Al- 
fred, looking  much  perplexed.  "  Let  me  think.  I 
have  not  had  it  to-day,  but  yesterday  I  made  whistles 
at  recess.  Oh,  now  I  remember !  I  lent  it  to  Joe 
Williams,  and  I  suppose  he  forgot  to  give  it  back 
to  me.  I  will  ask  him  for  it  this  afternoon.  Run 
and  ask  father,  Willie,  to  please  to  lend  Alfred 
his  sharp  knife  to  make  you  a  windmill." 

The  little  boy  ran  cheerfully  away,  and  in  a  few 


Bearing  False  Witness.          61 

moments  returned  with  the  knife.  A  pretty  wind- 
mill was  soon  made,  and  all  the  litter  cleared  up, 
and  the  knife  given  back  to  their  father,  before  the 
dinner-bell  rang. 

Joseph  Williams  was  Alfred's  most  intimate 
friend,  and,  as  they  walked  home  from  school  to- 
gether as  usual  that  afternoon,  Alfred  happened 
to  think  .of  his  knife,  and  said  suddenly,  — 

"O!  where  is  my  knife,  Joe?  You  forgot  to 
give  it  to  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  have  had  it  to-day,  have  I, 
Alf  ? " 

"  No,  not  to-day,  but  yesterday,  to  make  a  whis- 
tle ;  don't  you  recollect  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  recollect  having  it  to  make  a  whistle ; 
but  I  am  sure  I  gave  it  back  to  you." 

"  No  you  didn't.  I  have  not  had  it  since,  and 
I  have  searched  all  my  pockets ;  so  please  search 
yours." 

This  was  said  pleasantly,  and  Joseph  immedi- 
ately complied ;  he  turned  his  pockets  inside  out, 
but  no  knife  appeared. 

"  I  am  sure  I  gave  it  back  to  you,"  he  repeated, 
as  the  last  pocket  was  searched. 

"  And  I  am  sure  you   did  not,"  returned  Alfred, 


62  The  Lost  Knife;  or, 

positively.  "I  always  keep  my  knife  in  the  right- 
hand  pocket  of  my  pants,  and  it  is  not  there,  nor 
in  any  of  my  other  pockets.  You  must  have  lost 
it  somewhere." 

Joseph  felt  somewhat  indignant  at  this  hasty 
speech ;  and  as  they  came  just  then  to  the  road 
which  led  to  his  own  home,  he  turned  quickly 
away,  and  walked  in  that  direction,  instead  of 
going  a  little  farther  with  Alfred,  as  was  his  usual 
custom. 

This  added  to  Alfred's  ill-humor ;  and  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  as  he  walked  along,  "  So  mean 
to  sneak  off  in  that  way  !  If  he^  has  lost  the  knife, 
why  can't  he  say  so,  honestly." 

The  next  few  days  made  matters  worse  between 
the  two  friends.  Alfred  was  a  great  favorite  with 
his  school-fellows,  on  account  of  his  cheerful, 
obliging  disposition,  and  the  pleasant  frankness 
of  his  manners.  Joseph  was  more  reserved,  and 
by  no  means  so  universally  liked.  As  soon,  there- 
fore, as  it  was  whispered  among  the  little  circle 
that  "Joe  had  got  Alfred's  knife,"  great  indigna- 
tion was  felt. 

"  I  never  did  like   the  fellow,"   said   one,    "  he 


Bearing  False  Witness.  53 

always  seemed  so  proud  and  stuck-up.  I  wonder 
what  made  Alf  think  so  much  of  him?" 

"  So  mean  in  him  to  borrow  a  knife,  and  then 
say  he  gave  it  back,  when,  no  doubt,  he  lost  it," 
said  another. 

"Xo,  he  has  not  lost  it"  said  a  third,  with  a 
mysterious  look  and  manner.  "  I  know  some- 
thing about  that." 

"What  do  you  know?  Tell  us,  Mark,  that's 
a  good  fellow,"  cried  the  others,  crowding  around 
him. 

"  I  know  that  he  has  it  in  his  pocket,"  replied 
Mark,  with  an  air  of  importance.  "  Yesterday 
afternoon  I  passed  by  his  house,  and  as  he  was 
standing  in  the  wood-shed,  cutting  sticks,  I  stopped 
to  see  what  he  was  making.  He  had  a  brown- 
handled  knife  in  his  hand,  and  as  I  looked  at  it 
I  could  not  help  exclaiming,  'Why,  there  is  Alf's 
knife  ! '  for  it  really  looked  precisely  like  it.  Joe 
colored  as  red  as  a  beet,  and  put  the  knife  in  his 
pocket,  saying,  in  a  very  short  way,  'No,  it  is'nt 
Alf's  knife  !  It  is  mine.'  But  I  know  it  is  Alf's." 

"  Of  course  it  is,''  responded  the  eager  listeners. 
u  If  Alf  will  give  us  leave,  we  will  make  him 
give  it  up." 


64  The  Lost  Knife'y   or, 

But  Alfred  would  not  consent  to  any  violence. 

"  If  Joe  is  so  mean  as  to  take  the  knife  in  that 
way,  he  may  keep  it,"  he  said,  contemptuously ; 
"I  will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  him.  I 
don't  care  for  the  knife,"  he  added,  "  for  my  uncle 
made  me  a  present  of  a  very  good  one  yesterday, 
as  it  was  my  birth-day.  Joe  might  have  had  the 
other,  and  welcome ;  but  he  couldn't  wait  for  me 
to  give  it  to  him." 

In  spite  of  Alfred's  expressed  wish  that  no  vio- 
lence should  be  used,  many  sly  tricks  were  played 
upon  Joseph,  and  many  an  insulting  remark  made 
in  his  presence,  all  of  which  he  bore  in  silence, 
treating  his  persecutors  as  if  he  considered  them 
quite  unworthy  of  notice. 

In  reality,  however,  he  suffered  much  from  the 
loss  of  Alfred's  friendship,  for  his  parents  were 
poor,  while  Alfred's  were  more  wealthy ;  and, 
being  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the  boy 
whom  their  son  had  chosen  for  a  friend,  they  had 
encouraged  the  intimacy,  and  shown  Joseph  many 
acts  of  kindness. 

Alfred  also  felt  the  change,  for  Joseph  was  some- 
what older  than  himself,  and  a  very  excellent 


Bearing  False  Witness.          65 

scholar,  and  he  had  depended  a  good  deal  upon 
him  for  assistance  in  his  studies. 

Thus  several  weeks  passed  away  very  uncom- 
fortably to  both  parties,  and  yet  neither  were  in  the 
slightest  degree  inclined  to  yield.  Alfred  remained 
firm  in  his  opinion  that  "Joe  took  the  knife,"  and 
Joseph  was  equally  firm  in  his  resolution  to  make 
no  attempt  at  an  explanation,  but  to  treat  the 
whole  affair  with  contempt. 

Alfred's  mother  was  from  home  during  the 
greater  part  of  this  time,  or  she  would  have  no- 
ticed the  change  in  the  intimacy  between  the  boys, 
and  would  have  endeavored  to  have  set  the  matter 
right. 

Xot  many  days  after  her  return,  she  kindly 
inquired  for  Joe. 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since  I  came  home,"  she 
said.  "  He  is  not  sick,  I  hope." 

••  Xo,  he  is  well  enough,"  replied  Alfred;  "but 
we  do  not  go  together  any  more,  mother." 

"  Do  not  go  together  any  more !  "  repeated  his 
mother.  "  You  do  not  mean  that  you  are  no 
longer  friends?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  that  is  what  I  mean." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,  Alfred,"  said  Mrs. 
5 


66  The  Lost  Knife;  or, 

Goodwin,  gravely.  "  I  fear  you  have  been  to 
blame.  Trifles  should  not  part  friends." 

"It  was  no  trifle,  mother,"  exclaimed  Alfred, 
indignantly ;  "Joe  Williams  stole  my  knife." 

"  That  is  a  serious  charge,  Alfred.  I  certainly 
do  not  wish  you  to  associate  with  a  dishonest  boy. 
Have  you  good  proof  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  mother,  of  course  I  have.  I  lent  it  to 
him,  and  he  did  not  give  it  back  to  me,  and  when 
I  asked  him  for  it  he  was  huffy,  and  said  he  had 
not  got  it." 

"  Well,  Alfred,  and  where  is  your  proof  that  he 
had?  You  might  have  been  mistaken." 

"  No,  mother,  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  I  lent  it 
to  him,  and  I  searched  all  my  own  things  for  it  in 
vain ;  and,  besides  that,  mother,"  urged  Alfred, 
eagerly,  for  he  saw  that  his  mother  was  still  uncon- 
vinced, "  Mark  Stevens  saw  him  have  my  knife." 

"  Ah,  that  alters  the  case,"  said  Mrs.  Goodwin. 
*'  If  Joseph  has  really  been  seen  with  the  knife  in 
his  possession,  that  must  be  taken  as  proof.  But 
is  Mark  quite  sure?" 

H  Yes,  mother,  Joe  was  in  his  own  wood-shed 
cutting  sticks  with  a  knife  which  Mark  says  looked 
exactly  like  mine.  He  told  him  it  was  'Alf's 


Bearing  False  Witness.          67 

knife,'  and  Joe  said  it  was  not,  but  he  colored  up, 
and  put  the  knife  in  his  pocket.  It  must  have  been 
mine,  mother,  for  Joe  had  none  of  his  own.  I 
always  lent  him  mine,  and  should  have  given  it 
to  him  after  uncle  gave  me  the  new  one,  if  he 
had  not  helped  himself  to  it  before  that  time." 

Mrs.  Goodwin  mused  in  silence  for  a  little  while, 
and  then  said, — 

"  The  circumstances  are  certainly  suspicious, 
Alfred,  but  still  I  do  not  think  the  proof  full  and 
clear.  It  is  a  very  serious  thing  to  accuse  any  one 
of  theft.  It  was  your  duty  to  have  had  a  kind  and 
friendly  talk  with  Joseph,  and  asked  him  frankly 
where  he  got  the  knife  that  Mark  saw  him  have." 

'•  He  would  not  have  told  me,  mother.  He 
treats  all  the  boys  with  contempt,  and  will  never 
answer  any  questions  about  the  knife." 

"  Because  his  feelings  have  been  wounded  by 
your  hastv  judgment,  and  harsh  accusations,  Al- 
fred." 

"  I  have  said  nothing,  I  think,  but  what  was 
true,  mother." 

"  Perhaps  not ;  but  possibly  you  have,  and  if 
this  should  prove  to  be  the  case,  you  will  deeply 
regret  what  you  have  done." 


68  The  Lost  Knife;  or, 

Alfred  looked  grave  and  uneasy.  He  was  a 
truthful  boy,  in  the  common  meaning  of  the  term, 
and  could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  might  possibly 
have  told  a  falsehood. 

His  mother  was  called  from  the  room  just  then, 
and  no  more  was  said  on  the  subject. 

Another  week  passed  away,  and  there  was  still 
no  change.  Saturday  afternoon  came,  and  a  large 
party  of  the  school-boys  had  agreed  to  go  to  the 
woods  for  chestnuts.  Alfred  was  eager  to  be  of 
the  number. 

"  It  will  be  such  fun  to  hear  them  come  rattling 
down,"  he  said  ;  "  can  I  go,  mother?  " 

His  mother  gave  her  consent,  but  added,  "  Not 
in  those  clothes,  Alfred  ;  go  and  put  on  your  gray 
suit,  which  hangs  in  the  closet  in  your  room." 

Alfred  obeyed,  saying  cheerfully,  as  he  left  the 
room,  — 

"  That's  a  good  suit  for  work  or  play  ;  but  it  is 
so  long  since  I  wore  it,  that  I  am  afraid  it  will  feel 
rather  tight." 

The  suit  fitted  nicely,  in  spite  of  his  fears,  how- 
ever ;  but  just  as  he  was  fairly  equipped,  he  felt 
something  hard  in  the  right-hand  pocket  of  the 


Bearing  False  Witness.          69 

pants,  and  putting  in  his  hand  to  see  what  it  could 
be,  pulled  out  the  long-lost  knife. 

The  whole  truth  flashed  upon  his  mind.  He 
had  worn  those  pants  one  afternoon,  many  weeks 
before,  to  go  a-fishing  with  Joe.  He  remembered 
it  all  now.  He  had  put  his  knife  in  that  pocket, 
and  there  it  had  been  ever  since.  And  poor  Joe  ! 
How  falsely  he  had  accused  him,  and  what  could 
he  do  now  ?  He  felt  so  ashamed  to  tell  his  mother, 
and,  above  all,  to  tell  all  the  boys.  But  this  was 
only  a  momentary  feeling.  Alfred  was,  as  we 
have  said  before,  a  truthful  boy.  He  had  judged 
hastily,  and  had  said  what  was  false,  but  now  that 
he  was  convinced  of  his  injustice,  he  was  willing 
to  do  all  in  his  power  to  make  reparation. 

In  another  moment  he  was  at  his  mother's  side, 
and  had  told  her  the  whole  story. 

"  Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  ivitness  against 
thy  neighbor"  she  said,  solemnly,  but  affection- 
ately, as  he  ended.  "  It  will  be  a  lesson  to  you, 
my  dear  boy.  Hasty  judgments  often  lead  us  to 
commit  great  sins." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  more  careful  in  future.  I 
will  try,  mother." 

"And  what  will  you  do  now,  Alfred?" 


70  The  Lost  Knife;  or, 

"  I  think  I  will  go  at  once  to  Joe,  mother,  and 
tell  him  the  whole  affair,  and  ask  his  forgiveness. 
He  is  not  invited  to  join  our  party  ;  but  if  he  will 
go  with  me,  I  will  show  the  knife  to  all  the  boys, 
and  I  am  sure  they  will  all  be  sorry  for  what  they 
have  done,  and  give  him  a  hearty  welcome." 

"  That  is  a  good  plan,  my  boy.  Tell  Joseph, 
from  me,  that  I  hope  he  will  go  with  you.  Tell 
him  that  I  think  it  his  duty." 

There  was  great  surprise  among  the  boys  when, 
as  they  had  almost  given  up  the  hope  of  seeing 
Alfred,  he  suddenly  appeared,  coming  towards 
them,  arm-in-arm  with  his  old  friend  Joe  Williams. 

As  soon  as  he  came  near  enough  to  speak,  he 
held  up  the  knife,  and  said,  in  a  voice  loud  enough 
for  all  to  hear,  — 

"  This  is  my  old  knife,  boys,  that  we  have  so 
long  accused  Joe  of  taking.  I  found  it  to-day  in 
the  pocket  of  these  old  pants,  where  it  has  been 
for  weeks.  The  knife  which  Mark  saw  Joe  have 
was  given  to  him  by  a  friend  that  very  day.  It 
does  look  something  like  mine,  but  not  exactly.  I 
have  done  Joe  great  injustice,  boys,  but  he  has 
kindly  forgiven  me,  and  I  shall  try  to  be  a  better 


Bearing  False  Witness.  71 

friend  in  future.  I  am  sure  you  are  all  sorry  for 
having  suspected  him." 

"  Three  cheers  for  Joe  Williams,"  shouted  some 
of  the  younger  boys,  while  the  older  ones  came 
forward  to  shake  hands  and  express  their  sorrow^ 

The  cheers  were  given  with  hearty  good-will, 
and  then  all  united  in  a  vigorous  attack  upon  the 
chestnut-trees. 

Alfred  never  forgot  the  lesson  he  had  learned. 

When  tempted  to  hasty  judgments  and  harsh 
accusations,  he  would  remember  the  lost  knife,  and 
carefully  examine  himself,  lest  he  should  again 
bear  false  witness  against  his  neighbor. 


MAKING    THE    BEST    OF  IT. 


UCH    a    long  spelling  lesson  as  we 
have    got    for   to-morrow,"    said    little 
Julia  Meredith,  as  she  seated  herself  at 
the  table  one  evening  after  supper,  and 
placed  her  school-books  at  her  side. 
"Just  look,  mother,"  she  continued,  holding  up 
the  spelling-book  so  that  her  mother  could  see  it, 
and  pointing  to  the  lesson  for  the  next  day.     "All 
that!     Isn't  it  too  long?" 

"  Oh,  I  think  you  will  be  able  to  learn  it,  Julia," 
replied  her  mother,  glancing  at  the  lesson,  which 
was  really  a  long  one.  "  Study  industriously  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  I  will  see  how  many  words 
you  can  spell." 

"  It   is   too  long,"    repeated  Julia,    impatiently, 
"  and  I  know  I  can  never  learn  it.     The  teacher 
ought  not  to  have  given  us  such  a  long  lesson." 
72 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  73 

After  some  urging  from  her  mother,  however, 
Julia  began  studying,  but  soon  became  discour- 
aged, and  again  fretted  at  the  length  of  the  lesson. 
Just  then  her  father's  step  was  heard  in  the  entry, 
and  Julia  sprang  up  to  open  the  door  for  him. 

Mr.  Meredith  had  been  obliged  to  go  out  for  a 
little  while  after  tea,  but  had  now  returned  to 
pass  the  evening  with  his  family.  The  younger 
children  were  asleep,  but  Julia  was  very  glad  to 
welcome  her  father,  for  he  often  assisted  her  in 
learning  her  lessons.  Just  now,  however,  she 
seemed  to  want  his  sympathy  more  than  his  assist- 
ance ;  for,  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  his  accustomed 
seat,  she  showed  him  the  spelling  lesson,  and  asked 
him  if  it  was  not  a  very  long  one. 

Mr.  Meredith  examined  it  carefully,  and  pres- 
ently replied,  — 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  is  a  long  lesson." 

Mrs.  Meredith  looked  up  with  some  surprise. 
She  had  thought,  herself,  that  the  lesson  was  a 
long  one,  but  she  did  not  feel  sure  that  it  was  wise 
to  admit  this  to  Julia.  She  made  no  remark,  how- 
ever, but  went  quietly  on  with  her  sewing. 

"  I  knew  you  would  think  it  was  too  long  !  "  ex- 
claimed Julia,  triumphantly.  "  I  am  sure  it  is  the 


74  Making  the  Best  of  It. 

longest  spelling  lesson  that  has  ever  been  given  to 
our  class.  What  would  you  do  about  it,  father?" 

"  First  tell  me  what  you  have  already  done," 
replied  her  father. 

"  I  told  Miss  Seaton  that  I  knew  I  could  never 
learn  it,"  said  Julia,  "  but  she  only  smiled,  and 
said  I  could  not  be  sure  till  I  had  tried." 

"  And  have  you  tried  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Meredith. 

"  Not  much,  for  I  know  it  would  be  of  no  use. 
I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  study  it  at  all,  and  just 
tell  Miss  Seaton,  to-morrow,  that  it  was  a  great 
deal  too  long.  What  would  you  do,  father?" 

"  I  think,"  replied  her  father,  slowly  and  thought- 
fully, "  that  I  would  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  Oh,  father,"  exclaimed  Julia,  u  that  is  what 
you  always  say  when  I  am  in  any  trouble." 

"  Because  it  is  really  the  very  best  way  to  get 
out  of  trouble,  my  little  girl.  We  must  all  have 
many  trials,  great  trials  and  little  trials,  and  noth- 
ing will  so  greatly  help  us  to  bear  them,  as  a 
cheerful  disposition.  But  now  let  us  look  at  the 
spelling  lesson,  and  see  what  can  be  done  with  it." 

Julia  again  handed  the  book  to  her  father,  and 
after  another  examination,  he  took  a  lead  pencil 
from  his  pocket,  and  marked  several  words. 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  75 

"Can  you  learn  twelve  bard  words,  Julia?  "  he 
asked,  as  he  placed  the  book  before  her. 

"  Oh  yes,  father,  I  can  learn  twelve  words  easily  ; 
but  that  would  .be  but  a  small  pai't  of  the  lesson." 

"  I  know  that,  Julia,  but  I  have  marked  twelve 
that  I  wish  you  to  learn  first,  and  then  we  will  talk 
about  the  rest." 

Julia  studied  busily  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
told  her  father  that  she  could  spell  all  the  words 
that  he  had  marked. 

"  Then  I  think  you  will  find  that  you  can  spell 
the  whole  lesson.  Hand  me  the  book,  and  I  will 
put  out  the  words  to  you." 

Julia  obeyed,  and,  to  her  great  surprise,  went 
through  the  whole  lesson  with  only  one  slight 
mistake.  She  looked  a  little  mortified  as  she  met 
her  father's  smile  when  he  closed  the  book. 

"  I  really  thought'  it  was  a  hard  lesson,  father," 
she  said. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  did,  Julia,  but  you  should 
have  examined  it,  and  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
It  was  a  long  lesson,  but  I  saw  at  once  that  the 
greater  part  of  the  words  were  very  easy." 

"  Xow  that  the  spelling  lesson  was  off  her 
mind,"  as  Julia  said,  "  the  geography  and  history 


76  Making  the  Best  of  It. 

would  soon  be  learned  ;  "  and  when  bed-time  came 
she  had  the  pleasure  of  feeling  quite  sure  that  she 
was  well  prepared  for  school  the  next  day.  "  Fa- 
ther has  such  a  nice  way  of  helping  me  to  learn  my 
lessons,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  laid  her  head 
upon  her  pillow ;  "  I  am  so  glad  that  I  know  that 
spelling  lesson." 

Perhaps  Julia  thought  more  of  having  learned 
the  spelling  lesson  so  easily,  than  she  did  of  her 
father's  advice  as  to  what  she  ought  to  do  in  all  her 
little  troubles.  I  think  this  must  have  been  the 
case  ;  for  the  next  morning  brought  new  trials,  and 
it  certainly  did  not  appear  that  she  tried  to  make 
the  best  of  them.  The  first  trouble  was  waking 
up  half  an  hour  later  than  she  had  intended  to  do. 
Julia  was  working  a  pair  of  slippers  which  she 
intended  for  a  birthday  gift  to  her  father,  and  she 
had  made  a  resolution  to  rise  early  in  the  morning, 
and  work  upon  them  for  an  hour  before  breakfast. 
She  had  succeeded  in  waking  at  the  proper  time 
for  several  mornings,  and  now  she  felt  greatly  dis- 
appointed when,  on  peeping  out  of  her  room  to 
look  at  the  old  clock  which  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs,  she  found  herself  so  much  behind  the 
appointed  time. 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  77 

"  It  is  really  too  bad  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  shall 
not  have  more  than  half  an  hour  to  sew  on  the 
slippers,  and  that  will  not  even  finish  the  rose-bud 
that  I  begun  yesterday.  I  will  just  go  back  to  bed, 
and  not  try  at  all  this  morning."  So,  feeling  quite 
vexed  and  out  of  humor,  Julia  crept  back  to  bed, 
and  lay  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  until  the  first 
bell  rung,  which  was  the  signal  for  all  to  get  up 
and  prepare  for  breakfast. 

Just  as  Julia  was  ready  to  go  down  stairs,  her 
mother  opened  the  door  of  her  room.  "  Are  you 
quite  ready,  Julia?"  she  said,  pleasantly.  "And 
ho\v  do  the  slippers  come  on  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  worked  on  them  this  morning, 
mother  ;  I  woke  up  too  late,  —  at  least  it  was  later 
than  I  meant  to  wake,  and  I  should  have  had  but 
half  an  hour." 

u  That  would  have  been  better  than  nothing, 
Julia  ;  but  there  is  the  breakfast-bell ;  we  must  go 
down." 

Julia  followed  her  mother,  feeling  rather  dissat- 
isfied with  herself  and  all  around  her.  Her  good 
humor  was  by  no  means  restored  when  she  found 
that  a  gentleman  who  was  taking  breakfast  with 
them  occupied  her  seat  at  the  table.  To  be  sure 


78  Making  the  Best  of  It. 

there  was  another  seat  for  Julia,  but  she  preferred 
her  accustomed  place  near  her  father,  and  she 
looked  quite  vexed,  and  not  at  all  disposed  to 
"  make  the  best  of  it,"  as  she  took  the  chair  which 
her  mother  pointed  out.  School-time  came  very, 
soon  after  breakfast,  and  as  soon  as  they  rose  from 
the  table,  Julia  hastened  to  the  garden  to  gather  a 
bouquet  for  her  teacher.  There  was  a  beautiful 
moss  rose-bud  which  she  had  been  watching  for 
several  days,  and  this  morning  she  expected  to  find 
it  just  enough  in  bloom. 

"  Miss  Seaton  will  be  delighted,  I  know,"  said 
Julia  to  herself,  as  she  hurried  along.  "  I  heard 
her  say,  a  few  clays  ago,  that  she  thought  there  was 
no  flower  so  beautiful  as  a  moss-rose." 

But  a  great  disappointment  awaited  her.  The 
bud  had  disappeared :  some  one  must  have  picked 
it.  Julia  could  hardly  help  weeping  with  grief 
and  vexation.  "  This  is  a  day  of  misfortunes ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  had  nothing  but  trouble 
all  the  morning.  I  was  so  pleased  to  think  that  I 
should  have  that  pretty  bud  for  Miss  Seaton  this 
morning,  and  now  some  one  has  gone  and  picked 
it,  just  to  trouble  me.  I  will  not  carry  any  flowers 
to  school,  —  not  one." 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  79 

This  was  a  foolish  resolution,  for  there  were 
many  other  kinds  of  roses,  and  beautiful  flowers 
of  almost  every  kind  in  the  garden,  but  Julia  had 
set  her  heart  upon  having  that  one  particular  bud, 
and  nothing  else  would  satisfy  her.  She  returned 
to  the  house  in  a  very  ill-humor,  and  prepared  for 
school. 

"  Have  you  a  bouquet  for  your  teacher?"  asked 
her  mother,  who  knew  that  she  generally  took  one 
with  her  in  the  morning. 

"  I  should  have  had  a  beautiful  one,"  replied 
Julia,  rather  sullenly,  "  but  some  one  picked  my 
moss  rose-bud,  which  I  have  been  watching  for 
three  or  four  days." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  one  on  the  bush  near  the 
summer-house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  I  picked  that  one,  Julia  ;  I  did  not  know  that 
you  were  watching  it,  and  I  sent  it  to  your  grand- 
mother. But  why  did  you  not  gather  some  other 
flowers?  There  are  beautiful  cluster  roses;  lam 
sure  Miss  Seaton  would  be  pleased  with  them." 

"  I  did  not  want  to  carry  any  flowers,  if  I  could 
not  have  the  moss  rose-bud,"  replied  Julia  ;  "  and, 
besides,  it  is  too  late  now,  it  is  time  I  was  on  my 


8o  Making  the  Best  of  It. 

way  to  school ;  "  and  with  a  hasty  good-morning 
to  her  mother,  the  little  girl  hurried  away.  She 
felt  a  little  mortified,  however,  when  she  saw 
Annie  Wells  go  up  to  the  teacher  with  a  pretty 
bunch  of  cluster  roses,  and  heard  Miss  Seaton 
thank  her  very  gratefully,  and  say  that  she  was  par- 
ticularly glad  to  have  them,  as  her  mother  was  not 
well,  and  was  always  much  pleased  with  that  kind 
of  rose.  "  I  will  put  them  in  water  to  keep  them 
fresh,"  she  added,  "  and  take  them  home  with  me 
this  noon." 

"Now  isn't  that  provoking?"  thought  Julia; 
"  our  cluster  roses  are  fifty  times  as  handsome  as 
those,  and  I  might  have  brought  a  great  deal 
larger  bunch." 

It  was  too  late  to  regret  it  then,  however,  for 
just  at  this  moment  the  bell  stopped  ringing,  and 
the  scholars  took  their  seats,  and  commenced  the 
business  of  the  clay.  Julia  had  no  trouble  with  the 
morning  recitations,  for  these  lessons  had  all  been 
carefully  prepared  at  home  ;  but  her  misfortunes 
commenced  again  when  she  took  her  slate  and 
pencil,  and  commenced  ciphering.  It  was  a  new 
rule,  and  somehow  she  could  not  understand  it. 
To  be  sure,  Miss  Seaton  had  explained  it  very  care- 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  Si 

fully  to  the  whole  class  the  day  before,  but  this  was 
just  after  the  long  spelling  lesson  had  been  given 
out ;  and  Julia  was  so  much  vexed  with  the  thought 
of  learning  so  many  words,  that  she  had  paid 
little  attention  to  the  explanation.  She  read  the 
rule  several  times,  and  tried  one  sum  after  another, 
but  they  would  not  come  right.  Pretty  soon  she 
gave  up  in  despair,  and  looked  toward  Miss  Seaton 
to  see  if  she  was  at  leisure  to  help  her.  uXo, 
there  was  the  class  in  grammar,  and  it  always  took 
them  forever  to  recite,"  Julia  said  to  herself,  impa- 
tiently. So  as  she  could  not  do  her  sums,  she 
began  to  draw  a  picture,  and  was  so  much  engaged 
with  it  that  she  did  not  at  first  notice  when  the 
class  closed  their  books  and  took  their  seats.  Miss 
Seaton  waited  a  few  moments,  as  she  always  did, 
between  each  recitation,  to  see  if  any  scholar  re- 
quired her  assistance,  and  then  called  another  class. 
Just  as  they  were  taking  their  places,  Julia  recol- 
lected her  sums,  and  went  to  the  desk  to  ask  for 
help. 

••You  are  too  late,  Julia,  the  class  is  waiting; 
but  I  will  attend  to  you  at  recess,  if  you  like,"  was 
the  reply. 

Julia  returned  to  her  seat  in  ill-humor.  "  I  am 
6 


82  Making  the  Best  of  It. 

not  going  to  lose  my  recess,  or  any  part  of  it,  just 
for  these  sums,"  she  said  to  herself.  But  then 
came  the  fear  of  losing  her  place  in  the  class  ;  and, 
rather  than  do  that,  she  concluded  to  stay  in  for  a 
few  moments  after  her  school-mates  had  gone  out. 
Miss  Seaton  attended  to  her  at  once  ;  but  the  little 
girl  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  join  her  companions, 
and  so  impatient  and  inattentive,  that  it  was  very 
difficult  to  make  her  understand  the  rule. 

"I  am  afraid  you  do  not  understand  it  clearly 
yet,  Julia,"  said  her  teacher,  kindly,  as  she  turned 
hastily  away. 

"  I  know  I  don't.  I  never  shall,  Miss  Seaton ; 
it  is  such  a  hard  rule." 

"It  is  a  very  simple  one,  if  you  would  only  give 
your  attention,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  but  perhaps  you 
had  better  go  out  now." 

Julia  hardly  waited  for  the  permission,  but  was 
at  the  door  almost  before  Miss  Seaton  had  finished 
speaking.  She  did  not  find  her  companions  very 
easily,  for  the  day  was  so  fine  that  their  teacher 
had  allowed  them  a  longer  recess  than  usual,  and 
they  had  wandered  to  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  school-house. 

"  They  must  have  gone  to  the  woods,"  said  Julia 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  83 

to  herself;  "  I  will  go  to  the  entrance  and  listen, 
and  perhaps  I  shall  hear  their  voices ; "  and  away 
she  ran.  When  she  paused  to  listen,  she  heard  no 
voices,  but  she  could  very  distinctly  hear  some  one 
hammering. 

41  There  they  are !"  she  exclaimed;  "they  are 
building  something,  —  a  new  arbor,  perhaps,  —  or 
they  may  be  putting  up  a  swing.  I  can  follow  the 
sound  of  the  hammer ;  they  work  like  real  car- 
penters." 

Julia  ran  hastilv  along,  and  soon  came  in  sight 
of  the  carpenter,  but  he  was  by  no  means  such 
a  looking  person  as  she  had  expected  to  find.  A 
beautiful  golden-winged  woodpecker  was  hard  at 
work,  making  a  nest  for  himself  in  the  stump  of 
an  old  tree. 

Julia  clapped  her  hands  with  delight.  "  If 
there  isn't  our  very  woodpecker  that  had  his  nest 
in  the  old  apple-tree  near  the  school-house ! "  she 
exclaimed;  "I  know  him  just  as  TV  ell.  I  was  so 
sorry  when  they  cut  down  the  old  tree  the  other 
day.  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  making  another  nest  for 
himself." 

The  woodpecker  seemed  to  be  pleased  to  see 
Julia,  and  wished  to  bid  her  good-morning,  or 


84  Making  the  Best  of  It. 

else  he  was  tired  of  work,  and  wished  to  rest 
himself,  by  talking  a  little  ;  for  just  at  this  moment 
he  seated  himself  on  a  bough,  and  began  his 
accustomed  "  wit-a-wit-wit-wit-weat."  I  do  not 
know  that  his  call  was  really  any  different  from 
usual,  but  it  certainly  sounded  differently  to  Julia. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  he  said,  "Make  the  best, 
make  the  best  of  it."  She  had  not  thought  of 
her  father's  motto  before  that  day,  but  now  it 
came  very  forcibly  to  her  mind. 

"  The  woodpecker  makes  the  best  of  it,  sure 
enough,"  she  said  ;  "  for  when  his  old  nest  was 
destroyed  he  went  right  to  work  to  make  another. 
How  strange  that  he  should  sing  me  that  song ! 
I  had  quite  forgotten  about  making  the  best  of  it." 

Julia  walked  slowly  and  thoughtfully  back  to 
the  school-house.  She  was  thinking  over  the  mis- 
fortunes of  the  morning,  and  she  saw  plainly  that 
she  •  had  not  tried  to  make  the  best  of  any  of  her 
little  troubles.  "  I  will  begin  now,"  she  said  to 
herself;  "  I  may  have  more  troubles  before  night, 
and  I  will  try  to  make  the  best  of  every  one  of 
them." 

Julia  first  tried  her  good  resolution  in  regard 
to  her  arithmetic  lesson.  "It  is  a  troublesome, 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  85 

vexatious  rule,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  once 
more  took  up  the  book,  ';but  I  am  determined 
to  make  the  best  of  it."  So  she  gave  her  whole 
attention,  and  was  quite  surprised  to  find  how 
soon  the  difficulties  disappeared. 

"  It  was  not  so  very  hard,  after  all,"  thought 
she;  "I  am  glad  I  made  the  best  of  it." 

Somehow  troubles  did  not  seem  to  come  quite 
so  frequentlv,  now  that  she  was  watching  for 
them,  and  had  resolved  to  make  the  best  of  them. 
The  history  lesson  which  was  given  out  for  the 
next  day  was  certainly  rather  long ;  but  then,  as 
Julia  said,  ';  It  would  be  foolish  to  divide  it,  for 
there  was  no  other  good  place  to  stop,  and  so 
they  might  as  well  take  it,  and  make  the  best 
of  it." 

Miss  Seaton  looked  a  little  surprised  at  hearing 
this  opinion  expressed  by  Julia,  but  she  said  it 
would  give  her  much  pleasure  if  they  could  take 
the  whole  lesson,  and  all  the  class  agreed  to  try. 

It  was  really  a  trial  to  Julia  to  find,  on  her  return 
from  school  that  day,  that  her  little  sister  had  broken 
the  'head  of  her  best  doll.  She  was  just  going  to 
say  that  it  was  entirely  spoiled,  and  that  she  never 
wanted  to  see  it  again,  when  she  remembered 


86  Making  the  Best  of  It. 

what  the  woodpecker  had  said  to  her  in  the  green 
woods,  and  her  own  good  resolutions.  So  she 
examined  dolly's  head  quite  calmly,  and  said  cheer- 
fully, — 

"  I  am  glad  you  broke  the  back  of  the  head, 
and  not  the  face,  Rosy.  I  can  make  her  a  pretty 
lace  cap,  and  then  she  will  look  almost  as  well  as 
ever." 

Mrs.  Meredith  was  so  much  pleased  to  hear 
Julia  speak  in  this  manner,  that  she  kissed  her 
affectionately,  and  said  that  dolly  should  soon  have 
a  new  head.  When  evening  came  again,  and  Mr. 
Meredith  was  in  his  accustomed  seat,  ready  to  at- 
tend to  Julia  and  her  lessons,  he  said,  smilingly, — 

"  Have  you  remembered  to  make  the  best  of  all 
your  little  troubles  to-day,  my  daughter?" 

"Not  of  all  of  them,  father ;  I  forgot  all  about 
it  this  forenoon,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  met 
with  all  kinds  of  troubles,  but  this  afternoon  I 
have  remembered,  and  tried  to  do  better."  And 
then  Julia  told  her  father  about  the  pretty  wood- 
pecker, and  what  he  seemed  to  say  to  her,  and  Mr. 
Meredith  listened  with  much  interest ;  and  when 
Julia  asked  him  if  it  was  not  strange  that  the  bird 
should  seem  to  say,  "  Make  the  best  of  it,"  he  told 


Making  the  Best  of  It.  87 

her  that  the  good  spirits,  who  were  trying  to  help 
her  to  do  right,  put  it  into  her  mind  that  the  bird 
said  these  words,  in  order  to  remind  her  of  the 
advice  he  had  given  her  the  evening  before. 

Julia  understood  this  very  well,  for  she  knew 
that  the  good  spirits  were  always  trying  to  help  her 
to  do  right ;  but  still  she  loved  to  think  that  the 
woodpecker  had  really  said  those  words,  and  that 
night  she  dreamed  that  she  again  saw  him  perched 
upon  the  bough,  and  calling  out  to  her  in  a  very 
cheerful  voice,  which  sounded  extremely  like  her 
father's,  "  Make  the  best  of  it." 


ISABEL'S  BIRTH  DAT. 

HAT  an  odd  little  figure!"  ex- 
claimed Isabel  Crawford,  one  of  a 
merry  party  of  school-girls,  who,  with 
baskets  and  tin  boxes  in  their  hands, 
were  roaming  through  the  woods  and 
fields,  one  delightful  summer  afternoon,  in  search 
of  flowers  to  arrange  in  their  herbariums. 

Isabel's  companions  looked  in  the  direction  to 
which  she  pointed,  and  echoed  her  exclamation  as 
they  saw  a  little  girl  with  a  sun-bonnet  almost  as 
large  as  herself  upon  her  head,  and  a  cape  upon 
her  shoulders,  extending  nearly  to  her  naked  feet. 

"  She  may  be  one  of  the  fairies  that  we  love  so 
much  to  read  about,"  suggested  a  bright-eyed  little 
miss  among  the  group. 

Her  remark  was  received  with  shouts  of  laugh- 
ter from  her  companions. 


Isabel's  Birthday.  89 

"A  fairy  indeed!  Oh  Rosalie,  what  an  idea! 
She  looks  more  like  an  orang-outang !  " 

'•  Xo ;  like  a  mushroom,"  remarked  Isabel,  as 
the  child  stooped  down  among  the  bushes,  after  a 
hasty  glance  at  the  party,  and  resumed  her  occupa- 
tion of  picking  the  ripe  blueberries  with  which  the 
fields  abounded.  "  But  we  will  not  laugh  at  her, 
girls,  it  is  not  right.  She  may  be  a  very  good 
child,  if  she  is  an  odd  figure.  Dress  does  not 
make  the  man,  you  know." 

"  How  wise  Isabel  is  growing  !  "  laughingly  ob- 
served one  of  the  girls.  "I  expect  she  will  soon 
wear  a  cap  and  spectacles." 

"Not  quite  yet,  Miss  Kate,"  returned  Isabel 
good-humoredly.  '•  To  confess  the  truth,  the  teacher 
gave  me  that  little  sentence  for  a  copy  to-day. 
But  I  know  it  is  true ;  and  so  I  am  going  to 
have  a  talk  with  that  little  lady  yonder,  and  find 
out  what  kind  of  a  head  and  heart  live  under  the 
shelter  of  that  great  cape  and  bonnet." 

As  Isabel  said  this,  she  walked  hastily  toward 
the  little  berry -girl,  followed  by  several  of  her 
companions. 

The  child  looked  up  timidly  as  they  approached, 
and  seemed  half  inclined  to  run  away  ;  but  Isabel's 


90  Isabels  Birthday. 

smiling  countenance  and  kind  words  soon  re- 
assured her,  and  she  picked  away  as  industriously 
as  ever. 

"  What  a  large  pail  of  berries  you  have  gath- 
ered !  "  said  Isabel.  "  Are  you  going  to  sell  any  of 
them?  or  will  you  and  your  brothers  and  sisters 
eat  them  for  your  supper?" 

"  Oh !  I  have  no  brothers  and  sisters,  miss," 
replied  the  little  girl.  "  Mother  and  I  live  all 
alone  in  that  little  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 
You  can  just  see  the  chimney  from  here.  I  am 
going  to  sell  the  berries  in  the  village.  I  sold  four 
quarts  yesterday,  and  to-day  I  shall  have  six  or 
eight  to  sell.  Mother  will  be  very  glad." 

"  Do  you  give  all  the  money  to  your  mother  ? " 
asked  Isabel. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  miss  ;  she  needs  it  all  very  much. 
She  used  to  sew  a  great  deal,  and  then  we  had  all 
we  wanted  ;  but  she  grew  so  sick  and  weak,  that 
the  doctor  said  she  must  not  sew  any  more.  Then 
we  grew  vcrv  poor,  and  at  last  we  had  to  sell  our 
cow.  Oh !  I  was  very  sorry  then ;  for  I  loved 
poor  Mooly  so  much.  I  could  milk  her  myself, 
she  was  so  gentle.  But  mother  said,  it  would  be 
wrong  to  keep  her  when  we  had  not  enough  to 


Isabel's  Birthday.  91 

give  her  to  cat.  Before  my  father  died,  she  gave  a 
great  deal  of  milk;  and  we  used  to  sell  it  to  the 
neighbors,  and  that  helped  us  along  very  much ; 
but  when  we  grew  poor,  and  could  not  feed  her 
well,  she  gave  very  little  milk;  so  we  had  none  to 
sell.  I  \vas  afraid  we  should  never  have  any  more 
money  when  mother  took  all  that  Farmer  Jennings 
gave  her  for  the  cow,  and  paid  the  grocer  and  the 
doctor ;  but  she  said  it  was  right  to  pay  them,  and 
that  the  Lord  would  take  care  of  us,  for  He  takes 
care  of  even  the  little  sparrows.  And  now  I  know 
that  He  does  take  care  of  us,  for  He  has  made  all 
these  nice  berries  to  grow,  and  I  shall  pick  them 
and  sell  them,  and  earn  a  great  deal  of  money  for 
my  mother." 

The  tears  came  to  Isabel's  eyes  as  she  listened  to 
the  simple  story  of  the  little  berry-girl.  She  was 
the  only  child  of  wealthy  parents,  who  delighted 
to  do  evervthing  for  her  comfort  and  happiness; 
and  it  seemed  to  her  very  strange  and  sad  that 
there  were  people  so  poor  as  to  be  thankful  for  the 
little  money  they  could  earn  by  picking  berries. 

"What  is  your  name,  little  girl?"  she  asked,  as 
the  child  paused  in  her  story. 

"Jenny,  miss, — Jenny  Green,"  was  the  reply. 


92  IsabeTs  Birthday. 

And  Jenny  got  up  from  the  grass  where  she  had 
been  kneeling,  and  dropped  her  little  courtesy,  as 
her  mother  had  taught  her  to  do  when  any  one 
inquired  her  name. 

Isabel's  companions  smiled ;  but  she  looked  very 
serious  as  she  said,  "  Well,  little  girl,  if  you  will 
bring  your  berries  to  our  house  at  six  o'clock,  we 
will  buy  them  all,  and  my  mamma  will  give  you 
some  tea  and  sugar  for  your  sick  mother.  Do  you 
know  where  Mr.  Crawford  lives?" 

How  Jenny's  eyes  sparkled,  as  she  replied,  "  Oh, 
yes,  miss,  —  in  the  great  white  house  with  the 
beautiful  garden  !  I  will  bring  the  berries.  And, 
oh,  my  mother  will  be  so  glad  to  have  a  cup  of 
tea !  She  never  buys  any  now ;  but  it  always 
made  her  feel  better  when  she  was  sick  and  tired." 

"  Very  well,  Jenny ;  she  shall  have  a  nice  cup 
this  evening,"  said  Isabel,  her  eyes  still  glistening 
with  tears.  "  Do  not  forget  to  come  at  six  ;  I  will 
be  at  home  then.  Good-by  for  the  present !  " 

"  She  is  a  nice  little  girl,  Isabel ! "  exclaimed 
Kate  Barton,  as  they  walked  away.  '*  I  give  you 
great  credit  for  discovering  her  good  qualities. 
How  much  she  loves  her  mother !  She  seems  to 
have  no  thought  for  herself." 


Isabel* s  Birthday.  93 

"  The  few  shillings  that  she  can  earn  by  picking 
berries  will  do  very  little  toward  their  support," 
remarked  Isabel,  thoughtfully.  "  Something  must 
be  done  for  them." 

"  There  are  a  great  many  poor  people  in  the 
neighborhood,"  returned  Kate.  "  My  mother  gave 
away  such  a  heap  of  old  clothes  the  other  day !" 

"  But  I  want  to  do  something  for  them  myself" 
replied  Isabel.  "  My  father  and  mother  do  a  great 
deal  for  the  poor ;  but  they  have  often  told  me  that 
I  must  not  think  that  this  is  the  same  as  if  I  did 
it  myself." 

"  But  how  can  you  do  anything?"  argued  Kate. 
"If  you  give  away  money,  or  food,  or  clothing,  it 
is  not  really  giving  what  is  your  own ;  for  every- 
thing that  we  have  belongs  to  our  parents." 

"  That  is  very  true,"  replied  Isabel.  "  But  yet 
there  are  some  ways  in  which  we  can  help  the 
poor.  We  can  often  read  to  them,  and  teach  them 
many  things  ;  and  although  we  have  no  money  that 
is  really  our  own,  yet,  if  we  desire  it,  our  parents 
are  sometimes  willing  to  allow  us  to  give  up  some 
pleasure  which  they  have  promised  us,  and  use  the 
money  in  helping  others." 


94  IsabeTs  Birthday. 

"  I  do  not  understand  exactly  what  you  mean," 
said  Kate,  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  I  will  explain  it  to  you,"  replied  Isabel.  "  Last 
winter,  my  father  had  promised  me  a  new  beaver 
hat  ;  but,  before  he  purchased  it,  old  Susan's  cot- 
tage was-burned  to  the  ground,  and  I  wanted  very 
much  to  do  something  to  help  her.  So  I  asked 
my  father,  if  I  would  wear  my  old  hat  all  winter, 
whether  he  would  give  me  the  money  that  a  new 
one  would  cost  to  buy  clothes  for  Susan.  He  was 
quite  willing ;  and  mother  helped  me  to  buy  the 
clothes  and  make  them." 

"Well,  Isabel,  you  are  a  strange  girl!"  ex- 
claimed Kate,  with  a  merry  laugh.  "  If  my  father 
was  as  rich  as  yours,  I  would  have  had  the  beaver 
hat,  and  the  money  for  Susan  besides." 

"  But  there  would  have  been  no  self-denial  in 
that,  Kate.  The  money  \vould  not  have  been 
mine  to  give." 

"  I  do  not  see  much  difference  in  either  case," 
replied  Kate ;  "  and  I  should  not  care  anything 
about  it,  so  long  as  the  poor  did  not  suffer.  It  is 
just  as  well  for  them  to  receive  help  from  our 
parents  as  from  us." 

"  But  not  so  well  for  us,  Kate." 


Isabels  Birthday.  95 

*'  Perhaps  not ;  but  I  am  not  so  much  of  a 
philosopher  as  you  are,  Isabel.  And  as  for  the 
self-denial  that  you  speak  of.  —  I  never  had  much 
fancy  for  it.  I  like  to  enjoy  myself  while  I  can.  I 
wonder  what  scheme  you  will  hit  upon  to  buy 
another  cow  for  that  poor  woman  ?  You  will  have 
to  go  without  any  new  clothing  next  winter." 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope,"  replied 
Isabel,  with  a  quiet  smile.  "  But  come,  Kate  ;  the 
girls  are  far  ahead  of  us.  Let  us  try  to  overtake 
them  ;  and  then  we  will  all  sit  down  upon  the 
rocks  around  our  favorite  brook,  and  arrange  our 
flowers." 

"  Agreed,"  answered  Kate.  "  Now  for  a  race! 
I  can  beat  you  at  that,  Miss  Isabel ;  although  you 
have  the  advantage  of  me  in  reasoning." 

"Run  for  your  life,  then  !  "  was  Isabel's  laughing 
reply.  And  away  scampered  the  two  girls  across 
the  green  fields,  regardless  of  bushes  and  briers, 
until,  out  of  breath,  they  joined  their  companions, 
who  were  quietly  standing  to  watch  the  race. 

Just  as  the  clock  in  the  village  church  struck  six, 
little  Jenny  Green  stood  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Craw- 
ford's handsome  mansion.  Isabel  had  not  for- 


96  Isabel's  Birthday. 

gotten  her  promise  to  be  ready  for  her  at  that  hour. 
She  had  told  the  story  to  her  mother,  and  received 
permission  to  buy  the  berries,  and  to  give  Jenny 
several  articles  of  suitable  clothing.  Mrs.  Craw- 
ford had  packed  a  small  basket  of  provisions,  and 
had  advised  Isabel  to  go  herself  to  the  cottage,  as 
she  would  then  be  better  able  to  judge  of  the  truth 
of  what  Jenny  had  told  her,  and  could  also  make 
more  particular  inquiries  into  the  wants  of  the 
poor  woman. 

Jenny  appeared  much  delighted  when  she  found 
that  her  new  friend  intended  to  accompany  her 
home. 

She  trudged  merrily  along,  with  the  heavy  basket 
in  one  hand,  and  the  empty  pail  in  the  other,  de- 
clining all  Isabel's  offers  of  assistance,  until  at 
length  they  stood  at  the  door  of  a  small  but  very 
neat-looking  cottage  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  so  steep 
that  it  almost  deserved  the  title  of  a  mountain. 

"The  young  lady  has  come  to  see  you,  mother  !" 
exclaimed  Jenny,  as  she  opened  the  cottage-door, 
and  invited  Isabel  to  walk  in. 

"  She  .is  very  kind,"  replied  a  pleasant  voice ; 
and  Mrs.  Green  came  forward  to  welcome  her 
visitor. 


IsabePs  Birthday.  97 

She  was  neatly  dressed,  and  had  a  cheerful, 
contented  expression  of  countenance  ;  although  she 
looked  pale  and  feeble,  as  though  she  had  been 
very  ill. 

Isabel  inquired  kindly  concerning  her  health ; 
and  she  replied  that  she  was  much  better,  and 
hoped  soon  to  be  able  to  work  again, 

••  You  will  not  have  to  work  for  a  long  time, 
dear  mother,"  said  Jenny.  "Just  look  at  this  great 
basket  of  nice  things  that  the  young  lady's  mother 
has  sent  you  !  and  see  all  the  money  that  she  paid 
me  for  my  berries !  Before  you  have  spent  all 
this,  I  shall  have  earned  some  more.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  I  could  earn  enough  to  buy  a  cow !  Then 
you  could  sell  the  milk  again,  and  we  should  have 
all  we  wanted." 

Mrs.  Green  smiled. 

'•  You  forget  that  the  cow  must  be  fed,  Jenny," 
she  said.  "  But  do  not  trouble  the  young  lady 
with  all  our  griefs.  There  is  a  beautiful  rose-bud 
upon  your  bush  ;  would  you  not  like  to  give  it  to 
her?" 

••  Oh,  yes,  very  much!  "  exclaimed  Jenny;  and 
she  ran  to   her   little  garden,  and   soon   returned 
with  the  bud. 
7 


98  Isabel's  Birthday. 

"  My  dear  father  planted  the  rose-bush  for  me," 
she  said ;  "  and  there  are  roses  upon  it  every 
month." 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Isabel,  as  she  took 
the  bud.  "  I  will  put  it  in  water  as  soon  as  I  get 
home,  Jenny,  and  it  will  be  fresh  and  sweet  for 
many  days;  and  to-morrow,  when  you  bring  us 
some  more  berries,  I  will  give  you  a  sprig  of 
my  monthly  honeysuckle."  Jenny's  eyes  sparkled 
with  pleasure  as  she  heard  this,  and  Mrs.  Green 
thanked  Isabel  for  her  kindness  to  the  little  girl. 

"  She  tries  to  be  a  good  child,"  she  said,  t;  and 
she  is  a  great  comfort  to  me.  She  has  worked 
very  hard  since  I  have  been  ill ;  but,  as  soon  as  I 
am  a  little  stronger,  I  shall  try  to  let  her  go  to 
school  again." 

*f  Can  you  read,  Jenny?"  asked  Isabel. 
•  *'  Oh,  yes,  miss  !     I  can  read  a  chapter  in  the 
Bible    without  missing    one   word.       And    I    have 
three  little  story-books  that  my  teacher  gave   me  ; 
I  can  read  them  pretty  well." 

Isabel  thought  that  she  would  give  Jenny  some 
of  her  old  story-books  when  she  came  the  next 
dav ;  but  she  did  not  say  anything  about  it  then, 
as  she  had  not  consulted  her  mother.  She  bade 


IsabeVs  Birthday.  99 

Mrs.  Green  and  Jenny  good-by,  and  promised  to 
come  to  the  cottage  again  before  many  days. 
Then  she  walked  slowly  toward  home,  thinking 
over  many  plans  for  doing  good  to  the  widow  and 
her  little  girl. 

.  For  several  days  Jenny  continued  to  bring  her 
fresh  berries  to  Mr.  Crawford's,  and  received 
many  little  gifts  from  Isabel  and  her  mother.  Mrs. 
Crawford  also  visited  the  cottage  with  Isabel,  and 
was  so  much  pleased  with  Mrs.  Green  that  she 
sent  her  own  physician  to  see  her,  and  provided 
her  with  many  comforts. 

Mr.  Crawford  would  frequently  inquire  with  in- 
terest for  Isabel's  "little  berry-girl;"  and  he  had 
promised  that  a  barrel  of  apples,  and  a  good 
supply  of  winter  vegetables,  should  be  sent  to  the 
cottage  after  the  harvest. 

Mrs.  Green's  health  improved  very  much,  and 
she  was  soon  able  to  do  many  things  to  aid  in  their 
support,  although  too  close  attention  to  needle- 
work brought  on  a  return  of  her  old  complaints. 

Isabel  had  now  nearly  reached  her  twelfth  birth- 
day. Her  father  had  promised  her  a  party,  and 
fche  event  was  already  much  talked  of  among  her 
cumpuaioas ;  for,  as  we  have  already  said,  she  was 


ioo  IsabeVs  Birthday. 

an  only  child,  and  her  parents  were  wealthy, 
and  loved  to  do  everything  to  promote  her  happi- 
ness. There  was  to  be  music  and  dancing,  and 
an  elegant  supper,  and  everything  else  that  could 
be  desired,  at  the  birthday  party ;  and  Isabel 
looked  forward  to  it  with  great  anticipations  of 
delight. 

"  You  had  better  have  your  little  berry-girl  for 
one  of  the  waiters  at  your  party,  Isabel,"  said  Mr. 
Crawford,  as  they  were  talking  over  the  arrange- 
ments one  evening,  "  She  will  be  useful  to  you, 
and  it  will  give  her  pleasure  to  see  all  that  is 
going  on." 

"Thank  you,  father,"  replied  Isabel.  "Jenny 
will  be  delighted  to  come,  I  am  sure." 

"How  does  she  get  along  with  her  studies?" 
asked  Mr.  Crawford.  "  Your  mother  tells  me  that 
you  are  teaching  her  arithmetic." 

"  She  learns  very  fast,  father.  Her  mother  will 
send  her  to  school  next  winter,  if  she  is  well 
enough  to  spare  her." 

"  Mrs.  Green  is  quite  strong  again  now ;  is  she 
not,  Isabel  ?  " 

"  Much  better  than  she  was ;  but  the  sewing 
still  gives  her  the  bad  pain  in  her  side.  I  wish 


Isabel's  Birthday.  roi 

she  had  something  else  to  do.  When  they  had  a 
cow  she  used  to  sell  milk  and  fresh  butter,  and  this 
brought  them  in  a  good  deal  of  money ;  but, 
while  Mrs.  Green  was  ill,  they  grew  so  poor  that 
the  cow  had  to  be  sold  to  pay  their  debts." 

"  That  was  a  pity,"  returned  Mr.  Crawford. 
"A  cow  is  a  great  blessing  to  a  poor  person  ;  that 
is,  if  they  have  enough  to  feed  one." 

"  But  they  had  not,  father ;  that  was  one  great 
trouble.  Jenny  could  pasture  the  cow  at  the  sides 
of  the  road  during  the  summer ;  but  in  the  winter 
they  needed  hay  for  her,  and  they  had  no  money 
to  buy  it." 

"  I  would  willingly  have  given  them  the  hay  if 
I  had  known  the  circumstances,  and  then  they 
need  not  have  parted  with  the  cow,"  replied  Mr. 
Crawford. 

"  I  wish  they  had  another,  father,"  said  Isabel, 
earnestly.  "  Do  you  not  think  you  could  afford  to 
buy  them  one  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  think  I  can,"  answered  her  father, 
stroking  her  hair  affectionately.  "  We  people 
who  are  called  rich  have  a  great  many  ways  to 
spend  our  money.  There  is  my  little  daughter's 
party,  for  instance :  that  will  cost  me  as  much  as 


IO2  Isabel 's  Birthday. 

a  cow.  I  will  try  to  help  Mrs.  Green  through  the 
winter ;  but  I  do  not  think  I  can  afford  to  give 
them  so  large  a  sum." 

Isabel  was  silent,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking 
deeply. 

u  You  must  not  be  grieved  at  my  refusal,  my 
child,"  said  her  father.  "  You  know  that  I  would 
gladly  oblige  you,  if  I  thought  it  would  be  right." 

"  I  know  that,  father ;  I  am  not  grieved,"  re- 
plied Isabel ;  but  still  she  remained  very  thoughtful. 

After  a  long  silence,  she  said,  "Father,  if  I 
will  give  up  my  party,  will  you  buy  a  cow  for 
Mrs.  Green?" 

"  Give  up  your  party,  my  dear  Isabel !  Can  you 
make  up  your  mind  to  do  this,  when  you  have 
looked  forward  to  it  so  long?" 

"  Xot  very  easily,  father  ;  but  I  think  I  can  do  it. 
The  pleasure  that  we  should  have  from  the  party 
seems  of  little  consequence,  when  I  think  of  the 
good  that  the  money  would  do  Mrs.  Green." 

It  was  now  Mr.  Crawford's  turn  to  be  silent 
and  thoughtful.  At  length  he  said,  "  I  will  speak 
to  your  mother  about  it,  Isabel ;  and  to-morrow 
morning  we  will  talk  on  the  subject  again.  Per- 
haps you.  will  repent  of  a  too  hasty  decision." 


Isabels  Birthday.  103 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crawford  felt  a  little  re- 
luctance at  the  thought  of  Isabel's  giving  up  her 
party ;  and  at  one  time  her  father  half  resolved  to 
buy  the  cow  himself,  and  not  ask  for  any  sacrifice 
on  her  part.  But  her  mother  opposed  this  course  ; 
for  she  felt  sure  that  the  self-denial  would  be  good 
for  Isabel,  and  she  did  not  think  it  would  be  right 
for  them  to  deprive  her  of  this  good. 

"  We  will  let  her  take  her  own  course,"  she  said 
to  her  husband.  "  She  will  lose  her  party,  it  is 
true ;  but  the  act  of  kindness  will  bring  around 
her  many  good  and  gentle  spirits,  and  she  will  be 
happier  than  with  her  earthly  companions." 

When  Isabel  came  to  her  father  in  the  morning, 
therefore,  and  told  him  that  she  still  wished  to  buy 
the  cow,  he  consented  at  once,  and  promised  that 
he  would  attend  to  the  business  himself,  and  would 
see  that  she  was  provided  with  food  for  the  first 
year  at  least. 

When  Isabel's  companions  questioned  her,  as 
usual,  about  the  expected  party,  she  felt  a  little  at 
a  loss  what  to  say  to  them.  She  could  easily  tell 
them  that  she  had  concluded  not  to  have  it ;  but 
then  they  would  want  a  reason,  and  she  was  un- 
willing to  speak  of  her  generosity  to  Mrs.  Green. 


104  Isabels  Birthday. 

Kate  Barton,  however,  suspected  at  once  that  her 
friend  had  denied  herself  the  expected  pleasure  for 
some  purpose  of  charity ;  and  begged  so  earnestly 
to  know  all  about  it,  that  Isabel  told  her  the  whole 
truth. 

Kate,  and  indeed  all  the  girls,  were  a  good 
deal  disappointed  at  first ;  but  many  of  them  had 
become  quite  interested  in  little  Jenny  and  her 
mother,  and  they  could  not  help  rejoicing  that 
they  were  to  receive  so  valuable  a  gift. 

And  now  Kate  Barton  appeared  to  have  some 
little  secret  of  her  own.  She  had  called  at  Mr. 
Crawford's  one  afternoon,  -when  she  well  knew 
that  Isabel  was  absent,  and  had  quite  a  long  talk 
with  her  mother.  After  this,  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  whispering  and  consultation  among  the 
elder  girls  at  the  school ;  and  finally  Isabel  was 
told  that  they  had  concluded  to  celebrate  the  after- 
noon of  her  birthday  by  having  a  little  picnic,  and 
invited  her  to  join  them. 

"  We  are  going  to  the  grove  near  Mrs.  Green's 
cottage,"  said  Kate.  "  You  know  what  a  pleasant 
place  it  is,  Isabel.  It  has  been  nicely  cleared  up 
within  a  few  days,  and  is  all  ready  for  a  picnic." 

Isabel   entered    readily   into    the   plans   of    her 


Isabel's  Birthday.  105 

school-mates,  and  promised  to  be  early  on  the  pic- 
nic ground,  and  to  bring  an  abundance  of  flowers 
to  decorate  the  table. 

"  How  I  \vish  father  could  have  bought  the  cow 
before  the  picnic  ! "  said  Isabel  to  her  mother,  as 
she  told  her  of  the  proposed  pleasure  ;  "  then  Mrs. 
Green  could  have  treated  us  to  some  fresh  milk, 
and  Jenny  would  have  felt  so  proud  and  happy. 
But  father  is  very  busy  at  present,  and  he  says  I 
must  not  hurry  him,  for  he  must  take  his  own  time 
for  such  an  important  purchase." 

'•Very  true,"  replied  Mrs.  Crawford,  smiling. 
"  Do  not  hurry  him,  Isabel ;  the  cow  will  come  in 
good  time.  I  am  much  pleased  with  the  kindness 
of  your  companions  in  celebrating  your  birthday, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  all  have  a  happy 
afternoon." 

UI  hope  the  weather  will  be  pleasant,"  said 
Isabel ;  and  her  hope  was  not  disappointed.  The 
day  appointed  for  the  picnic  was  one  of  the  most 
lovely  of  all  the  autumn  days,  and  the  faces  of 
the  happy  party  in  the  grove  were  as  cloudless  as 
the  sky. 

"  First  of  all,  we  must  choose  our  queen ! " 
exclaimed  Kate  Barton,  when  all  the  girls  had 


io6  Isabel's  Birthday. 

assembled,  and  kindly  greetings  had  passed  be- 
tween them. 

"She  is  already  chosen,  is  she  not?"  remarked 
one  of  the  other  girls.  "  We  have  only  to  crown 
her,  and  conduct  her  to  the  throne." 

"  Very  true,"  replied  Kate  ;  "  and  here  is  the 
crown,"  she  added,  producing  a  beautiful  wreath 
of  autumnal  leaves  and  flowers,  and  placing  it 
upon  Isabel's  head. 

"Long  live  Queen  Isabel!"  exclaimed  many 
voices,  as  Kate  took  the  hand  of  the  new-made 
queen,  and  led  her  to  a  mossy  seat,  which  was  to 
serve  the  purpose  of  a  throne. 

Isabel  was  so  much  astonished  at  this  unex- 
pected honor,  that  she  found  it  difficult  to  recover 
her  self-possession  sufficiently  to  reply  in  a  dig- 
nified and  proper  manner  to  the  congratulations 
of  her  subjects,  and  to  receive  the  numerous  gifts 
of  flowers  and  fruit  which  were  now  presented 
to  her. 

Just  as  she  was  becoming  more  at  ease  in  her 
new  position,  Jenny,  the  little  berry-girl,  appeared, 
bearing  in  her  hand  a  small  but  beautifully  chased 
silver  cup,  and  with  her  usual  modest  courtesy, 
presented  it  to  the  queen. 


Isabel's  Birthday.  107 

"  The  speech,  the  speech  !  "   urged  Kate,  laying 
her  hand  gentlv  upon  the  little  girl's  shoulder. 
Jenny  looked  up  with  a  bewildered  air. 

"I  cannot,  Miss  Kate.  Indeed,  I  tried  to  re- 
member it,  and  I  have  just  said  it  every  word  to 
my  mother ;  but  now  it  has  all  gone  out  of  my 
mind.  I  can  only  say,  dear  Miss  Isabel,  I  love 
you,  and  thank  you  with  all  my  heart." 

Here  Jenny's  voice  failed  her,  and  she  burst  into 
tears.  The  queen,  and  several  of  her  subjects, 
appeared  much  disposed  to  follow  her  example. 
Even  the  gay  Kate  brushed  the  drops  from  her 
eyes  as  she  exclaimed,  ''Was  there  ever  anything 
so  provoking !  —  that  eloquent  speech  that  I  have 
taken  so  much  pains  to  prepare !  But  will  your 
majesty  be  pleased  to  taste  the  contents  of  your 
cup  ?  "  she  continued,  playfully  addressing  Isabel, 
who  still  held  the  cup  iu  her  hand,  apparently 
quite  unconscious  of  what  it  contained. 

Isabel  started,  and  raised  the  cup  to  her  lips. 

"Milk!  warm  new  milk!"  she  exclaimed, 
springing  from  die  throne.  "  The  cow  has  come 
at  last !  " 

"  Yes,  miss,  she  has  come,"  said  Jenny,  smiling 
through  her  tears.  "And  such  a  beauty  you  never 


io8  Isabels  Birthday. 

saw ;  and  so  gentle,  that  I  can  milk  her  just  as 
easily  as  I  could  our  old  one.  But  you  have  not 
looked  at  the  beautiful  cup,  Miss  Isabel." 

Ashamed  of  her  neglect  of  the  costly  gift  of  her 
companions,  Isabel  hastened  to  examine  it,  and, 
with  the  tears  still  gathering  in  her  eyes,  read  the 
simple  inscription, —  "ISABEL:  from  her  Affec- 
tionate School-mates." 

"  It  is  beautiful,  and  I  do  thank  you  very  much," 
she  said  earnestly,  as  she  looked  around  upon  them 
all ;  "  but,  like  Jenny,  I  cannot  make  any  speech." 

"  We  do  not  want  any,"  replied  Kate.  "  You 
have  said  enough.  There  shall  be  no  speeches 
to-day,  since  the  one  that  I  planned  has  failed. 
And  now,  girls,  let  us  pay  our  respects  to  Jenny's 
new  treasure.  I  saw  her  quietly  feeding  in  the 
field  near  the  cottage." 

Away  ran  all  the  girls ;  and,  in  spite  of  Kate's 
boasted  fleetness,  Isabel  was  the  first  to  reach  the 
field ;  for  her  impatience  to  see  the  cow  seemed 
to  give  her  wings. 

The  cow  looked  somewhat  astonished  at  the 
merry  group,  and  greeted  them  with  a  low  "  Moo- 
oo  1 "  as  if  to  inquire  their  business  ;  but,  finding 


IsabeTs  Birthday.  109 

that  they  had  no  intention  of  molesting  her,  she 
quietly  went  on  feeding  as  before. 

She  was  a  fine-looking  animal ;  and,  after  suffi- 
ciently admiring  her,  the  girls  went  to  the  cottage 
to  wish  Mrs.  Green  joy,  and  to  get  the  large  pail 
of  milk  which  Jenny  assured  them  was  ready  for 
their  suppers. 

The  table  in  the  grove  was  soon  beautifully 
spread  ;  and  the  girls  joyfully  welcomed  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Crawford,  and  several  other  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  walked  that  way  to  witness  the 
scene. 

All  seemed  to  enjoy  the  feast,  and  the  milk  was 
pronounced  to  be  of  a  very  superior  quality. 

Many  a  merry  game  was  played,  and  many  a 
sweet  song  sung,  before  the  twilight  reminded 
them  that  it  was  time  to  seek  their  own  homes. 

It  had  been  a  happy  afternoon,  and  one  which 
none  of  the  little  party  would  soon  forget.  In 
after  years,  when  looking  back  upon  their  pleasant 
school-days,  one  of  the  most  cherished  remi- 
niscences was  that  of  the  picnic  on  Isabel's 
birthday. 


TELL   MOTHER." 


LL  tell  mother  !  "  exclaimed  Georgie 
Benton.  "  I'll  go  and  tell  her  this  very 
moment." 

Georgie  was  at  play  in  the  pleasant 
yard  with  his  two  brothers,  John  and 
Oscar,  and  his  little  sister  Kate.  John  had  taken 
Georgie's  hoop  from  its  nail  in  the  wood-shed,  and 
was  trundling  it  up  and  down  the  pathway  with 
great  delight.  Georgie  had  been  very  happy,  blow- 
ing soap-bubbles  to  amuse  little  Kate  ;  but,  when 
he  saw  John  with  the  hoop,  he  claimed  it  at  once, 
and  told  his  brother  to  hang  it  up  again  imme- 
diately. Johnny  was  not  disposed  to  obey  ;  and, 
as  Georgie  had  been  taught  not  to  use  force,  he 
resolved  to  go  and  complain  to  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Benton  was  very  busy  with  her  sewing  ;  but 
she  looked  up  pleasantly  as  Georgie  entered,  and 
no 


«/Y/  Tell  Mother."  in 

said,  "Well,  Georgie,  what  is  it?  Is  Kate  tired 
of  the  bubbles  ?  " 

••  Xo,  mother;  she  likes  them  very  much:  but 
John  has  got  my  hoop." 

"Do  you  want  to  use  it  now,  George?" 

'•  Xo,  mother ;  but  I  do  not  like  to  have  him 
take  my  things  without  my  leave." 

"  He  ought  not  to  do  so,  Georgie  ;  but  you  know 
he  is  not  so  old  as  you,  and  has  not  learned  so  well 
what  is  right." 

"  May  I  tell  him  that  you  say  he  must  hang  it 
up  in  its  place?"  asked  George. 

"Is  he  injuring  it,  George?" 

"  I  don't  know,  mother ;  but  I  want  him  to 
hang  it  up." 

"  Very  well,  you  may  tell  him  that  I  say  he 
must  hang  up  the  hoop,  and  come  to  me." 

Georgie  returned  to  the  yard  in  triumph. 

"  There,  Johnny  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  told  mother, 
and  she  says  you  must  hang  up  the  hoop,  and 
come  to  her." 

Johnny  obeyed ;  but  he  looked  unhappy,  and 
walked  towards  the  house  with  slow,  unwilling 
steps.  Very  soon,  however,  he  returned  with  his 
face  all  smiles  and  sunshine  again. 


H2  "TV/  Tell  Mother? 

"  Georgie,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "  will  you  please 
to  lend  me  your  hoop  a  little  while?  I  will  be 
very  careful  of  it." 

George  could  not  refuse,  although  there  was  a 
little  selfishness  in  his  heart,  which  made  him 
somewhat  unwilling  to  say  "Yes,"  even,  now  that 
the  request  had  been  made  in  a  proper  manner. 

He,  however,  consented ;  and  Johnny  joyfully 
took  possession  of  the  desired  plaything. 

For  about  ten  minutes  the  children  played  very 
happily.  Georgie  blew  the  bright-colored  bubbles  ; 
Kate  clapped  her  hands,  and  tried  to  catch  them  as 
they  rose  in  the  air ;  Johnny  rolled  the  hoop  up 
and  down  the  path ;  and  Oscar  was  very  busy 
digging  in  his  little  garden. 

But  prettv  soon  the  words,  "  I'll  tell  mother," 
were  again  heard.  Georgie  had  mischievously 
directed  some  of  his  bubbles  toward  Oscar,  as  the 
little  boy  kneeled  by  his  garden  ;  and  two  or  three 
of  them  had  burst  upon  his  head  and  his  rosy 
cheeks. 

So  mother  had  to  be  told ;  and  a  message  came 
to  Georgie  that  he  "  must  not  do  so  ;  for  it  was 
not  right." 

Georgie  smiled,  and  turned  his  pipe  in  another 


Tell  Mother"  113 


direction  ;  and  Oscar  went  on  with  his  work  :  but, 
as  he  was  now  digging  on  the  side  of  his  garden 
nearest  to  the  path,  he  was  in  the  way  of  Johnny's 
hoop  ;  and  several  times  it  hit  against  him,  and 
was  turned  out  of  its  course,  and  fell  to  the  ground. 
Johnny  did  not  like  this  ;  and,  as  Oscar  refused 
to  move,  he  marched  ofF  to  the  house  to  "  tell 
mother." 

I  do  not  know  what  message  would  have  been 
sent  to  Oscar  ;  for,  just  after  Johnny  went  with  his 
complaint,  little  Kate,  —  whose  heart  had  been 
made  very  glad  by  the  beautiful  bubbles  that 
Georgie  had  blown  for  her,  by  a  flower  which 
Oscar  had  given  to  her,  and  by  having  been  al- 
lowed by  Johnny  to  drive  the  hoop  several  times 
around  the  yard,  —  suddenly  clapped  her  little 
hands,  exclaiming,  — 

"Now  /'//  tell  mother:  Pll  tell  her  about 
Georgie,  and  about  Oscar,  and  about  Johnny." 
And  away  she  ran,  so  fast  that  Georgie  followed 
her,  fearing  that  she  would  fall.  Oscar  did  not 
wish  to  stny  alone  ;  and,  besides,  he  felt  curious  to 
know  what  Kate  had  to  tell  :  so  he  also  went  into 
the  house  ;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  all  the  children 
were  in  their  mother's  room. 
8 


U4  "M?  TellMotJier" 

Johnny  had  finished  his  story  when  the  others 
entered.  Little  Kate  ran  up  to  her  mother,  and, 
putting  up  her  mouth  for  a  kiss,  exclaimed, — 

"  I've  come  to  tell  you,  too,  mamma.  I'll  tell 
you  that  Georgie  is  a  good  boy :  he  blows  pretty 
bubbles.  Oscar  is  a  good  boy  :  he  gave  me  this 
flower.  And  Johnny  is  a  good  boy,  and  let  me 
drive  his  hoop." 

"  And  Kate  is  a  darling  good  little  girl,  and  has 
made  mamma  glad  by  telling  her  such  a  pretty 
story,"  said  their  mother,  as  she  stooped  to  kiss 
the  little  pet. 

The  three  boys  looked  a  little  ashamed,  and  their 
mother  said  to  them  kindly, — 

"  Perhaps  you  have  never  thought,  my  dear 
children,  how  much  it  troubles  me  to  have  you 
come  every  few  minutes  with  some  little  un- 
pleasant tale.  If  there  is  any  serious  difficulty 
between  you,  it  is  certainly  right  to  come  to  me 
to  settle  it ;  but  if  you  try  to  be  yielding,  and  kind 
to  each  other,  you  may  play  together  as  happily 
as  those  little  lambs  that  we  saw  the  other  day 
frisking  in  the  gi'een  meadow.  Try  to  follow 
Kate's  example,  and  'tell  mother'  of  all  the 


Tell  Mother."  115 


pleasant  things  that  happen.  This  will  make  you 
happy  :  and  it  will  make  me  happy  also  ;  for  little 
acts  of  kindness  among  children  are  like  sunbeams 
to  their  mother's  heart." 


THE    CHRISTMAS   GIFTS. 


EMILY  !  "  exclaimed  Rose  Grant, 
as  she  bounded  into  the  room  where 
her  sister  was  seated  at  the  piano,  care- 
fully practising  her  last  lesson,  "  I  am 
so  sorry  that  you  did  not  stop  after 
school  with  the  rest  of  the  girls  !  We  called  and 
called  after  you,  but  you  would  not  stop  to  listen,  — 
only  turn,  and  shake  your  head." 

"  Because,  if  I  had  stopped  to  listen,  you  would, 
perhaps,  have  persuaded  me  to  stay  ;  and  I  knew 
that  it  was  my  duty  to  come  home,  and  attend  to 
my  music,"  replied  Emily,  looking  up  at  her  sister 
with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"You  always  talk  about  duty"  returned  Rose. 
"  But  never  mind  ;  I  will  tell  you  what  we  had  a 
meeting  for,  and  you  can  join  us  just  as  well  as  if 
you  had  been  there." 

116 


The  Christmas  Gifts.  117 

"  Please  tell  me  by  and  by,  Rose,  because  I 
want  to  practise  as  much  as  possible  before  dark, 
and  you  know  the  days  are  so  short  now,  that  we 
have  very  little  time  after  school." 

"  Oh  !  it  will  take  me  but  a  few  minutes  to  tell 
you,  and  you  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  practise," 
persisted  Rose  ;  but,  just  then,  her  mother's  voice 
was  heard  from  the  next  room,  — 

"  Do  not  interrupt  your  sister,  Rose.  Put  your 
hat  and  cloak  in  their  proper  place,  and  then  come 
to  me." 

Rose  reluctantly  obeyed,  and  Emily  saw  no 
more  of  her  until  it  was  too  dark  to  distinguish 
the  notes  of  her  music.  Then  the  piano  was 
closed  ;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  two  sisters 
were  conversing  earnestly  together  in  their  own 
little  room. 

"  We  have  such  a  nice  plan  for  Christmas ! " 
said  Rose.  "  We  are  all  going  to  join  together, 
and  make  the  teacher  a  beautiful  present." 

"What  are  you  going  to  give  him?"  asked 
Emily. 

"  A  Bible,  —  a  beautiful  Bible  ;  elegantly  bound, 
with  handsome  clasps.  It  will  cost  a  good  many 
dollars ;  but  then  there  are  a  good  many  of  us  to 


n8  The  Christmas  Gifts. 

buy  it ;  so  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  make  up  the 
money.  Every  one  is  to  give  what  they  like. 
Some  of  the  girls  will  only  give  twenty-five  cents ; 
but  I  would  not  be  so  mean  as  that.  I  put  my 
name  down  for  a  dollar,  and  so  did  almost  all  the 
girls  in  our  class." 

"  But  a  dollar  is  half  of  what  you  have  saved  for 
Christmas  gifts,"  replied  Emily.  "  If  you  give  so 
much  toward  our  teacher's  present,  you  will  have 
very  little  for  your  other  friends." 

"  I  know  that,"  answered  Rose ;  "  and  I  am 
very  sorry ;  but  what  could  I  do  ?  I  did  not  like 
to  give  less  than  the  other  girls." 

"  Our  parents  are  not  wealthy,"  said  Emily, 
"  and  we  cannot  afford  to  give  so  much  as  some 
others.  Indeed,  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  afford  to 
give  anything  toward  the  Bible." 

"  Not  give  anything !  "  exclaimed  Rose.  "  Oh 
Emily !  I  never  thought  you  could  be  so  stingy. 
Not  give  anything  to  our  teacher,  who  is  always  so 
kind  to  us?" 

"  I  did  not  say  I  would  not  give  him  anything, 
Rosie,"  replied  her  sister,  smiling  good-naturedly; 
"  I  only  said  that  I  did  not  think  I  could  give 
anything  toward  the  Bible.  I  have  made  a  very 


The  Christmas  Gifts.  119 

pretty  pen-wiper  for  our  teacher ;  for  I  notice  that 
he  needs  a  new  one  on  his  desk.  I  do  not  mean  to 
be  stingy,  as  you  call  it ;  but  I  have  but  two  dol- 
lars to  spend,  and  there  are  several  things  that  I 
want  to  buy." 

44  But  you  could  do  without  them,  Emily," 
eagerly  urged  Rose.  "You  arc  so  handy,  you 
know,  that  you  can  always  make  all  sorts  of  things 
out  of  almost  nothing.  I  am  sure  you  have  got  a 
great  box  full  of  needle-books  and  pin-cushions, 
and  pen-wipers  and  collars,  and  all  sorts  of  things, 
for  Christmas  gifts ;  so  you  can  give  a  dollar 
toward  the  Bible  just  as  well  as  not." 

Emily  shook  her  head.  "  There  are.  some  per- 
sons who  must  have  a  different  kind  of  Christmas 
gift  from  anything  in  my  box,  Rosie,"  she  said. 
44  But  never  mind  ;  there  are  enough  of  you  to  buy 
the  Bible,  even  if  I  do  not  join  you." 

44  Oh,  yes,  there  arc  enough  of  us  to  be  sure  ; 
but  I  shall  feel  so  mortified  if  you  refuse  to  join  us. 
And  what  will  the  teacher  think,  when  he  reads 
the  note  that  we  are  going  to  send  him  with  the 
Bible,  and  does  not  see  your  name  down  ?  He 
will  suppose  that  you  do  not  care  anything  about 
him." 


I2O  The  Christmas  Gifts. 

"But  you  forget  my  pen-wiper,"  returned  Emily, 
smiling  at  her  sister's  look  of  mortification.  "  That 
will  at  least  show  him  that  I  have  not  forgotten 
him  in  my  Christmas  gifts.  But  we  will  not  talk 
any  more  about  it  now,  Rosie.  I  must  go,  and 
have  a  frolic  with  baby  before  tea ;  and  you  can 
amuse  George  and  Willie.  Mother  will  be  glad 
of  our  help,  I  am  sure." 

The  days  passed  swiftly  by,  and  Christmas  came 
almost  too  quickly  for  those  who  had  a  good  many 
little  gifts  to  prepare ;  but  the  children  were  all 
ready  for  it,  as  usual;  and  "a  merry  Christmas, 
a  merry  Christmas !  "  was  heard  from  hundreds 
of  cheerful  little  voices.  We  hope  that  all  these 
happy  little  ones  remembered  that  there  were  many 
to  whom  this  Christmas  could  not  be  a  merry  one, 
and  that  they  were  willing  to  share  their  blessings 
with  those  who  were  less  happy  than  they. 

The  Bible,  with  its  elegant  binding  and  hand- 
some clasps,  had  been  purchased  ;  and  the  note  to 
the  teacher,  begging  his  acceptance  of  the  gift,  had 
been  written,  with  the  names  of  the  girls  from 
whom  it  came,  each  in  her  own  handwriting:. 

'  O 

Much  to  the  chagrin  of  Rose,  Emily  had  persisted 
in  her  refusal  to  join  them.     Rose  had  begged  her 


The  Christmas  Gifts.  121 

mother  to  advise  her  to  do  so ;  but  Mrs.  Grant 
said  that  she  would  rather  allow  Emily  to  act  in 
freedom  in  the  case. 

Emily  had  presented  her  pen-wiper  to  her  teacher 
on  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  he  had  seemed 
much  pleased  with  it.  He  had  also  received  some 
other  trifling  gifts,  principally  from  the  younger 
children.  The  Bible  was  to  be  taken  to  his  own 
house,  on  Christmas  morning,  by  three  of  the  girls, 
who  were  chosen  by  the  others  to  present  the  gift. 
Rose  was  one  of  the  three ;  and,  as  she  was 
leaving  the  house  on  Christmas  morning  to  meet 
her  young  companions,  she  could  not  help  saying 
to  Emily,  — 

"  Ah  !  Emily,  do  you  not  wish  that  you  were 
going  with  me?" 

"  Xo,"  replied  her  sister,  pleasantly;  "I  have 
had  one  good  walk  this  morning." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  know  you  have  been  to  carry  some 
clothing  and  food  to  poor  people ;  but  don't  you 
wish  that  you  were  going  with  us  to  present  our 
beautiful  Bible?" 

"  I  have  presented  a  Bible  this  morning,  al- 
ready," answered  Emily,  smiling. 

"  A  Bible  1 "  exclaimed  Rose,  in  great  surprise ; 


122  The  Christmas  Gifts. 

but,  at  this  instant,  the  door-bell  1'ang,  and  the 
voices  of  her  school-mates  were  heard.  They  had 
called  for  her  on  their  way  to  the  teacher's  house  ; 
and  Rose  joined  them  immediately,  although  her 
sister's  words  had  filled  her  with  curiosity. 

"  To  whom  can  she  have  presented  a  Bible  ?  " 
she  said  to  herself.  "  I  am  sure  it  was  not  to 
father  or  mother ;  for  I  saw  the  gifts  for  them.  I 
do  wish  I  knew  !  I  will  ask  her  the  moment  that 
I  go  home." 

The  walk  was  not  a  long  one ;  and  the  girls 
were  soon  at  their  teacher's  door,  and  were  pre- 
paring to  ring,  when  a  pleasant  voice  behind  them 
wished  them  a  u  happy  Christmas"  ;  and,  on  turn- 
ing around,  they  saw  the  teacher  himself. 

"  You  ai*e  most  welcome,  young  ladies,"  he  said, 
kindly.  "  Allow  me  to  open  the  door  for  you.  I 
am  very  glad  that  I  returned  in  season  to  enjoy 
your  morning  call." 

As  he  said  this,  he  opened  the  door,  and  led  the 
way  into  a  pleasant  room  which  he  called  his 
study.  Here  the  beautiful  gift  was  presented,  and 
very  gratefully  accepted. 

"  My  pupils  coulcl  not  have  presented  me  with 
any  gift  which  I  should  value  so  highly,"  said  their 


The  Christmas  Gifts.  123 

teacher;  "and  I  shall  often  read  this  pleasant 
note,  and  think  of  those  who  have  so  kindly  re- 
membered me." 

As  he  said  this,  Rose  thought  of  her  sister,  and 
wished  more  than  ever  that  her  name  could  have 
been  affixed  to  the  note. 

"  This  is  the  second  agreeable  surprise  that 
I  have  received  this  morning,"  continued  their 
teacher.  "  I  have  just  returned  from  visiting  sev- 
eral poor  families  in  the  neighborhood.  One  old 
woman  among  them  is  so  generally  known,  that  I 
dare  say  you  have  all  heard  of  her.  '  Nurse 
Whiting,'  she  is  usually  called." 

"Yes  sir,  I  know  her!"  and  "I  know  her!" 
exclaimed  the  girls. 

"We  often  go  to  see  her,"  said  Rosie.  "  Emily 
went  this  morning,  and  carried  her  some  flannel, 
and  a  new  cap,  that  mother  sent  her  for  Christ- 
mas." 

"Was  that  all,  Miss  Rose?  Do  you  not  know 
of  your  sister's  own  Christmas  gift  to  the  good  old 
woman?  " 

"  No  sir,"  replied  Rosie,  blushing  deeply  ;  for 
she  felt  a  little  mortified  that  she  did  not  know. 


124  The  Christmas  Gifts. 

"  Then  I  will  go  on  with  my  story,"  continued 
the  teacher. 

"  I  had  some  little  comforts  for  the  poor  people  ; 
but,  as  I  walked  along,  I  was  thinking  of  one  most 
appropriate  gift  for  Nurse  Whiting,  and  I  was  con- 
sidering whether  my  duty  to  my  own  family  would 
allow  me  to  purchase  it  for  her.  This  was  a  copy 
of  the  Word,  with  very  large,  clear  type,  suitable 
for  the  declining  sight  of  the  old  woman.  I  knew 
that  she  dearly  loved  to  read  in  the  Word  of  the 
Lord  ;  and  I  had  heard  her  regret  that  her  sight 
was  failing,  so  that  it  was  becoming  difficult  for 
her  to  use  her  well-worn  Bible. 

"  When  I  reached  Nurse  Whiting's  room,  and 
presented  my  little  gift,  —  which  was  only  some 
few  comfortable  things  for  her  Christmas  dinner, — 
she  thanked  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  said 
that  the  Lord  had  indeed  been  mindful  of  her  that 
morning ;  for  He  had  sent  her  the  very  thing  that 
she  most  wished  for.  She  then  showed  me  a  large, 
neatly  bound  Bible,  with  most  excellent  type, 
which  she  said  had  just  been  presented  to  her  by 
one  of  my  scholars.  I  was  so  much  pleased  to 
hear  this,  that  I  turned  immediately  to  the  blank 
leaf,  where  I  found  your  sister's  name,  Miss 


The  Christmas  Gifts.  125 

Rose,  very  neatly  written  in  her  own  hand- 
writing. 

"  '  Only  read  what  it  says  ! '  exclaimed  the  de- 
lighted old  woman :  '  Nurse  Whiting,  from  her 
young  friend  Emily  Grant.  How  many  times  I 
shall  read  those  words,  and  pray  for  God's  blessing 
upon  her  ! '  The  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks 
as  she  said  this  ;  and  I  must  confess  that  my  own 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  they  were  tears  of  pleas- 
ure to  think  that  one  of  my  pupils  should  have  done 
so  kind  and  thoughtful  an  act.  And  now,  young 
ladies,  as  I  have  finished  my  story,  I  will  write  a 
little  note  of  thanks  to  the  kind  young  friends  who 
have  so  generously  remembered  me ;  and,  in  the 
mean  time,  please  to  amuse  yourselves  with  look- 
ing over  my  books  and  engravings." 

The  girls  found  abundant  amusement  upon  the 
neat  centre-table,  and  were  almost  sorry  when  their 
teacher  returned  to  them. 

"  Here  is  my  note,"  he  said ;  "  and  here  is 
another,  Miss  Rose,  which  you  will  please  to  hand 
to  your  sister.  I  could  not  refrain  from  writing  a 
few  words  to  thank  her  for  the  great  pleasure  she 
has  given  me  this  morning." 

Rose  hardly  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry,  as 
she  handed  the  note  to  her  sister. 


126  The  Christmas  Gifts. 

"  The  teacher  liked  our  gift  very  much,"  she 
said,  in  answer  to  her  mother's  inquiries;  "but 
I  really  believe  he  thought  more  of  the  Bible  which 
Emily  gave  to  Nurse  Whiting  than  he  did  of  his 
own  ;  and  he  has  written  a  note  to  thank  her  for 
it.  I  think  Emily  might  have  told  me  what  she 
intended  to  do  with  her  money." 

"  Do  you  honestly  think  that  it  would  have  made 
any  difference  in  your  own  plans,  Rose?"  asked 
her  mother. 

"I  do  not  think  it  would,  mother,"  answered 
Rose,  reluctantly. 

"  Then  put  away  that  little  feeling  of  envy  from 
your  heart,  Rose  ;  or,  perhaps  I  should  say,  of  jeal- 
ousy of  your  teacher's  praise  of  your  sister  ;  and 
go  and  put  your  arms  around  her  neck,  and  tell 
her  that  you  will  not  think  her  stingy  another 
time." 

"  I  did  not  really  think  her  so,"  replied  Rose, 
smiling,  as  she  gave  her  sister  a  hearty  embrace  ; 
"  only  I  was  afraid  that  the  teacher  would  think 
her  so." 

"And  now  you  are  very  glad  to  find  that  he 
does  not,"  said  Emily,  returning  the  embrace ; 
"  and  I  am  glad  too :  so  now  come  to  our  room, 
and  get  ready  for  our  Christmas  party." 


GOING  DOWN  HILL. 


'HO     is  that    boy    to    whom    you 
were  speaking  just  now,  Willie?" 
asked  Uncle  George,  as  he  stood  with 
his   little    nephew   upon   the    summit 
^          of  a  high  hill,  which  they  had  climbed 
in  order   to   obtain  a  favorable  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding country. 

"  That  was  Rufus  Lyman,  uncle,"  replied  Willie. 
"  But  I  was  not  speaking  to  him  exactly.  I  only 
said  two  or  three  words,  just  for  fun,  to  make  him 
go  away." 

"Rufus  Lyman!"  exclaimed  Uncle  George. 
"Not  Widow  Lyman's  son,  surely?  He  used  to 
be  a  fine-looking  lad." 

"  This  is  the  same  boy,  uncle.     He  has  changed 
very  much,   of  late.      We   never  play   with   him 
127 


128  Going  Down  HilL 

now,  and  seldom  speak  to  "ftim.  He  is  always 
loafing  around,  and  does  not  come  to  school,  or 
play  on  the  village  green,  as  he  used  to  do. 
People  say  that  he  is  getting  to  be  a  very  bad 
boy;  and  I  think  so  myself."  And  Willie  drew 
himself  up  with  an  air  of  importance  as  he  pro- 
nounced the  last  words. 

"  Poor  boy ! "  said  Uncle  George.  "  I  am  sorry 
to  hear  so  bad  an  account  of  him.  His  father  was 
a  very  worthy  man ;  and  his  mother  is  a  good 
woman,  and  must  feel  much  grieved  to  see  her  son 
going  down  hill  in  this  manner." 

"  Going  down  hill,  uncle  ! "  repeated  Willie. 
"  I  do  not  understand  what  you  mean." 

"When  we  see  a  person  becoming  poorer  or 
more  wicked,  or  changing  for  the  worse  in  any 
way,"  replied  his  uncle,  "  we  often  say  that  he  is 
'going  down  hill.'  We  mean  that  he  is  sinking 
from  a  higher  state  to  a  lower  one." 

"Yes,  uncle;  I  understand  you  now.  Rufus  is 
going  down  hill  fast  enough,  I  am  sure." 

"  And  I  suppose  a  great  many  of  you  give  him 
a  little  push  occasionally,  so  as  to  make  him  go 
down  a  little  faster ;  do  you  not  ? "  asked  his 
uncle. 


Going  Doicn  Hill.  129 

"  Why.  uncle,  what  a  strange  question ! "  ex- 
claimed Willie. 

••  Xot  at  all,  Willie.  I  have  seen  a  great  many 
men,  who.  either  from  want  of  feeling  or  want  of 
thought,  would  give  a  strong  push  to  some  poor 
unfortunate  person  whom  they  saw  going  in  the 
downward  path ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  it  is  much 
the  same  with  boys.  Are  there  any  among  you 
who  treat  Rufus  in  a  friendly  manner,  or  try  to 
do  him  any  good?" 

Willie  hung  his  head ;  but  he  was  an  honest 
boy.  and  he  answered  frankly, — 

"  Xo  uncle  ;  we  all  laugh  at  him,  and  tease  him 
whenever  he  comes  in  our  way." 

••  And  this  makes  him  worse,  Willie,  and  sends 
him  down  hill  faster  than  he  would  otherwise  go. 
Now.  supposing  I  should  slip  from  this  rock,  and 
roll  down  the  steep  bank,  should  you  run  after  me, 
and  push  me  to  make  me  roll  down  faster  ?  " 

••  Xo,  indeed,  uncle.  I  should  try  to  stop  you, 
and  help  you  up  again." 

"  I   have  no  doubt  you  would,  Willie.     And  this 
is  exactly  what  you  ought  to  try  to  do  for  poor 
Rufus.     Do  not  push  him  down  lower  and  lower, 
but  try  to  help  him  up  again." 
9 


130  Going  Down  Hill. 

"  But  I  do  not  know  how,  uncle." 

"  Try,  my  boy.  It  may  not  be  so  difficult  as 
you  imagine.  Leave  oft'  trying  to  vex  him,  and 
endeavor  to  make  him  see  that  you  wish  to  be  his 
friend ;  it  will  then  be  easier  to  find  some  way  in 
which  you  can  do  him  good.  Do  you  know  why 
he  no  longer  attends  school  ? " 

"  I  suppose  he  is  ashamed  to  come  in  those 
ragged  clothes,"  replied  Willie,  thoughtfully.  "  I 
never  thought  much  about  it  before  ;  but  I  dare 
say  his  mother  is  too  poor  to  buy  him  good  clothes. 
I  know  she  has  been  sick  a  great  deal  since  Mr. 
Lyman  died.  I  am  sorry  that  I  called  Rufus 
'  Old  Clothesman ; '  for  my  own  clothes  would 
be  no  better  than  his,  if  I  had  no  one  to  buy  me 
any." 

"  That  is  very  true,  Willie.  I  see  that  you  are 
beginning  to  think  rightly  on  the  subject,"  an- 
swered his  imcje,  "  I  have  no  doubt  you  can  do 
Rufus  much  good  {  and,  if  I  can  help  you  in  any 
way,  you  must  let  me  know." 

"  Yes  sir,  I  will,"  returned  Willie.  And,  as 
they  walked  toward  home,  his  mind  was  filled 
with  busy  thoughts  Concerning  Rufus ;  and  he 


Going  Doivn  Hill.  131 

formed  many  plans  for  placing  himself  upon  a 
more  friendly  footing  with  him. 

When  we  really  desire  to  do  good  to  others,  the 
opportunity  is  seldom  wanting.  On  the  day  fol- 
lowing the  conversation  with  his  uncle,  as  Willie 
was  returning  from  school,  he  saw  Rufus  in  a  field 
adjoining  the  road,  endeavoring  to  pick  up  a  large 
quantity  of  blackberries  which  lay  spilled  upon  the 
grass. 

"  I  will  help  him,"  thought  Willie.  And, 
springing  over  the  fence,  he  said,  in  a  friendly 
tone,  — 

"Have  you  spilled  your  berries,  Rufus?  Never 
mind  ;  the  grass  is  clean,  and  we  can  easily  gather 
them  up.  What  fine  large  berries !  Are  you 
going  to  take  them  to  your  mother?" 

Rufus  was  so  much  surprised  at  Willie's  friendly 
manner,  that  he  did  not  reply  for  a  few  moments, 
bat  at  length  he  said,  hesitatingly, — 

"  I  was  going  to  try  to  sell  them." 

••  Well,  you  will  get  a  good  price  for  them,  I 
am  sure."  returned  Willie.  "  I  have  no  doubt 
my  mother  would  buy  them  ;  she  often  buys  black- 
berries. Come  home  with  me,  and  I  will  ask  her." 

Rufus  made  little  reply  to  this  proposal  of  Wil- 


132  Going  Down  Hill. 

lie's ;  but,  after  the  beiTies  were  replaced  in  the 
basket,  he  silently  followed  him  home. 

Willie  carried  the  berries  to  his  mother,  and 
soon  returned  with  the  money,  which  he  handed 
to  Rufus,  saying, — 

"  Mother  says  if  you  can  bring  her  ten  quarts 
of  berries  as  good  as  these,  she  should  be  glad  to 
buy  them  to  preserve  for  winter." 

"  I  will  bring  them  to-morrow  afternoon,  or  the 
next  day,  at  farthest,"  replied  Rufus,  looking  much 
pleased.  And,  as  he  turned  to  go  away,  he  looked 
back,  and  said,  "  Thank  you,  Willie." 

"  He  will  like  me  now,"  thought  Willie,  as  he 
returned  to  the  house.  "  How  pleasant  his  voice 
sounded  when  he  said  '  Thank  you,  Willie ! '  I 
do  not  believe  he  wants  to  be  a  bad  boy.  To- 
morrow I  will  ask  him  why  he  does  not  come  to 
school." 

Rufus  was  certainly  not  an  idle  boy  ;  for,  on  the 
following  afternoon,  he  brought  to  Willie's  mother 
ten  quarts  of  large  ripe  blackberries,  all  of  which 
he  had  picked  with  his  own  hands  since  early 
morning. 

After  he  had  received  his  pay,  Willie  walked 
along  with  him  in  the  direction  of  his  own  home. 


Go  ing  Demon  Hill.  133 

"  Why  don't  you  come  to  school  now,  Rufus  ? " 
he  asked  in  a  kind  tone,  after  they  had  talked  for 
some  minutes  upon  different  subjects. 

"  I  have  no  clothes  that  are  fit  to  wear,"  replied 
Rufus  in  a  low  voice,  looking  down,  at  the  same 
time,  upon  his  patched  garments. 

'•Never  mind  your  clothes,"  answered  Willie. 
"You  can  study,  even  if  your  clothes  are  not 
good." 

"  But  the  boys  all  laugh  at  me,"  returned  Rufus ; 
"  and  then  I  grow  angry  and  wicked.  My  mother 
would  rather  have  me  stay  at  home  than  feel  so." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  ever  laughed  at  you, 
Rufus ;  I  never  will  again.  Do  come  to  school ; 
and,  if  the  boys  tease  you,  try  to  be  patient,  and 
they  will  soon  leave  it  off." 

Rufus  shook  his  head  ;  but  Willie  continued,  — 

"  Remember  what  a  good  scholar  you  used  to 
be,  Rufus.  You  were  the  best  reader  in  our 
class." 

"  It  is  all  different  now,"  answered  Rufus ;  and 
his  voice  trembled,  as  if  it  were  very  difficult  for 
him  to  keep  from  crying.  "  When  my  dear  father 
lived  with  us,  I  was  a  better  boy  than  I  am  now ; 
and  I  loved  to  go  to  school,  and  to  Learn  to  do 


134  Going  Down  Hill. 

many  useful  things.  But  everybody  says  I  am  not 
the  same  boy  that  I  used  to.  be  ;  and  I  know  I  am 
not.  I  love  my  poor  sick  mother,  though  ;  and  I 
mean  to  help  her  all  I  can.  This  money  will  be 
of  great  use  to  her ;  "  and  Rufus  looked  with  much 
satisfaction  at  the  money  which  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

"  I  was  almost  afraid  to  pick  berries  to  sell,"  he 
continued ;  "  for  I  thought  the  boys  would  laugh 
at  me ;  but  I  wanted  very  much  to  buy  some  tea 
for  my  mother,  and  so  I  resolved  to  try.  Yesterday 
was  the  first  day  that  I  went  into  the  fields ;  and 
when  I  saw  you  coming  along  the  road,  Willie,  I 
wished  I  was  at  home  again,  for  I  could  not  bear 
to  have  you  ridicule  me.  In  trying  to  get  out  of 
your  way,  I  spilled  a  part  of  my  berries ;  and  then 
you  came  to  me  so  kindly,  and  offered  to  help  me. 
Oh  Willie  !  it  did  me  good." 

Here  Rufus  quite  lost  his  self-control,  and  fairly 
sobbed  aloud  ;  and  the  tears  rolled  down  Willie's 
cheeks  also,  though  he  felt  very  glad  and  thankful 
that  he  had  been  kind  to  the  poor  boy  at  a  time 
when  he  so  much  needed  kindness. 

"  I  am  very,  -very  sorry  that  I  ever  laughed  at 


Going  Do-wn  Hill.  135 

you,"  he  again  repeated.  "  Do  not  cry,  Rufus,  I 
will  always  love  you." 

"  It  is  foolish  in  me  to  do  so,"  said  Rufus,  strug- 
gling to  be  calm.  "  And  I  know  it  is  wrong  to 
mind  being  laughed  at ;  but  it  is  very  hard  to 
help  it." 

They  had  now  reached  the  door  of  Mrs.  Ly- 
man's  cottage ;  ami  Willie  bade  Rufus  good-by, 
and  walked  thoughtfully  toward  home.  He  felt 
very  desirous  to  help  Rufus  ;  but  he  did  not  see 
clearly  what  he  could  do  for  him. 

"  If  I  only  had  some  money  to,  buy  him  a  new 
suit  of  clothes,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  perhaps  he 
would  go  to  school  again." 

Willie's  father  and  mother  were  not  rich  ;  and, 
as  they  had  several  children  to  provide  for,  Willie 
knew  that  it  was  not  in  their  power  to  buy  clothes 
for  Rufus.  He  thought  of  his  Uncle  George,  and 
wished  he  could  ask  him  about  it ;  but  he  had 
left  home  that  morning,  and  would  not  return  for 
several  weeks. 

After  much  reflection,  Willie  resolved  that  he 
would  propose  to  Rufus  to  try  to  earn  some  money 
to  buy  clothes,  and  that  he  himself  would  help 
him  all  that  he  could  in  his  play-hours. 


136  Going  Down  Hill. 

Rufus  received  the  proposition  very  gratefully. 
He  felt  very  sure  that  he  could  earn  clothes  for 
himself,  and  money  to  buy  various  things  for  his 
mother  besides,  if  Willie  would  help  him.  It 
was  Willie's  sympathy,  more  than  his  assistance, 
which  Rufus  needed.  He  was  willing  to  work, 
now  that  he  had  a  companion  to  encourage  him 
and  speak  kindly  to  him. 

The  school-boys  laughed  when  they  saw  Willie 
hard  at  work  picking  berries  with  the  "  Old 
Clothesman,"  as  they  called  Rufus  ;  bnt  Willie  took 
all  their  jokes  good-naturedly,  and  Rufus  soon 
learned  to  feel  little  disturbed  by  them. 

Good  berries  found  a  ready  sale  ;  and,  as  Rufus 
was  frequently  employed  by  the  neighboring  farm- 
ers, who  were  glad  to  see  that  "  the  lad  had  taken 
the  right  start  again,"  as  they  expressed  it,  there 
was  soon  money  enough  to  purchase  a  neat  suit 
of  clothes ;  while  Mrs.  Lyman  felt  so  comforted 
and  cheered  by  the  improvement  in  Rufus,  that 
she  was  now  gaining  rapidly  in  health,  and  was 
able  to  do  many  things  to  aid  in  their  support. 

It  was  a  happy  day  for  Willie  when  Rufus, 
neatly  dressed,  and  with  a  bright,  happy  coun- 
tenance, once  more  entered  the  village  school,  and 


Going  Doivn  Hill.  137 

took  his  seat  among  the  scholars.  The  teachers 
•welcomed  him  cordially;  and  the  boys,  who  had 
long  since  become  ashamed  of  laughing  at  him, 
now  gave  him  a  cordial  greeting. 

As  they  were  returning  home  that  afternoon,  a 
carriage,  which  was  driving  rapidly  along  the 
road  in  the  same  direction  in  which  they  were 
walking,  suddenly  stopped  near  Rufus  and  Willie, 
who  were  a  little  in  advance  of  the  other  boys ; 
and  Willie,  to  his  great  delight,  recognized  his 
Uncle  George,  who  had  been  absent  for  two 
months. 

'  "Jump  in,  Willie,"  said  Uncle  George.  "I  am 
going  to  your  father's,  and  will  take  you  home." 

"  That  is  a  bright-looking  lad  with  whom  you 
were  walking."  he  continued,  as  they  drove  rapidly 
along.  ''Is  he  a  school-mate  of  yours?" 

"  Why,  uncle,  that  is  Rufus  Lyman  !  "  exclaimed 
Willie.  "  Do  not  you  remember  seeing  him  the 
last  time  that  we  walked  into  the  country  to- 
gether ?  " 

"I  remember  poor  Rufus  very  well,"  replied 
Uncle  George  ;  ;;  but  surely  that  was  not  he." 

"  It  was  indeed,  uncle.  He  is  a  different  boy 
now.  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  story." 


138  Going  Down  Hill. 

Uncle  George  listened  with  great  interest  to 
Willie's  little  tale. 

"  You  have  helped  to  do  a  good  work,  Willie," 
he  said,  when  his  nephew  had  finished.  "  Rufus 
will  go  on  in  the  right  path  now,  if  I  am  not  much 
mistaken.  Was  it  not  far  better  to  give  him  a 
helping  hand  in  this  manner,  than  to  push  him 
along  in  the  downward  path?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  uncle.  I  will  never  push  any 
one  down  hill  again.  But  I  have  not  done  much 
for  Rufus ;  he  has  helped  himself." 

"Our  Heavenly  Father  .has  helped  you  both, 
my  boy.  He  has  sent  you  to  Rufus  as  a  medium 
of  His  love.;  and  He  prepared  the  mind  and  heart 
of  the  poor  fatherless  boy  to  receive  the  good 
and  truth  thus  offered  him.  Let  us  then  bless 
His  holy  name,  dear  Willie ;  for  it  was  indeed 
a  good  work." 


CLARA'S  BIRTHDAY; 

OR, 
THE   MOTIVE  MAKES   THE    DEED. 


was  a  lovely  morning  in  the  month 
of  June.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly, 
and  the  gentle  summer  breeze  scarcely 
misplaced  Clara's  clustering  curls,  as 
she  threw  open  the  window,  that  she 
might  breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  honeysuckle 
that  grew  so  luxuriantly  beneath  it,  and  listen  to 
the  music  of  the  birds,  who  were  so  joyously 
pouring  forth  their  morning  songs. 

Clara  felt  unusually  happy  on  this  bright  sum- 
mer morning,  for  this  was  her  tenth  birthday,  and 
she  was  joyfully  anticipating  the  good  wishes  and 
pretty  gifts  which  awaited  her.  Some  months 
before,  her  father,  who  had  noticed  several  faults 
in  her  character,  which  he  wished  to  aid  in  cor- 
recting, had  told  her,  after  kindly  pointing  out  the 
139 


1 40  Clara's  Birth  day. 

errors,  that  if  he  found  that  she  had  faithfully 
endeavored  to  remove  them,  he  would  give  her 
as  a  reward,  on  her  birthday,  a  beautiful  work- 
box,  such  as  Clara  had  long  desired. 

The  little  girl  felt  sure  that  she  should  receive 
the  promised  reward,  for  her  weekly  certificates 
from  her  teacher  gave  evidence  of  great  improve- 
ment as  a  scholar,  and  her  mother  had  frequently 
expressed  her  approbation  at  her  newly-acquired 
habits  of  order  and  usefulness.  So,  as  Clara  stood 
by  the  open  window  enjoying  the  beautiful  morn- 
ing, she  amused  herself  with  various  conjectures 
as  to  the  appearance  of  the  box,  and  the  many 
pretty  things  it  was  to  contain  ;  and  she  was  so 
busy  with  her  own  thoughts  that  she  did  not  hear 
her  father's  step,  nor  think  that  he  was  near,  until 
he  placed  a  large  paper  parcel  before  her,  and 
pleasantly  wished  her  a  happy  birthday. 

"Oh,  father!"  she  exclaimed,  joyfully.  "Is 
this  my  work-box?  lam  so  glad  that  you  think 
I  have  improved.  I  was  just  thinking  about  my 
box,  and  wondering  how  it  would  look." 

The  string  that  tied  the  parcel  was  soon  unfas- 
tened, and  the  work-box  was  found  to  equal  Clara's 
highest  expectations.  She  clapped  her  hands  with 


Clara's  Birthday.         .      141 

delight  when  she  saw  its  pretty  lining  of  pink  silk, 
and  the  bright  silver  thimble,  and  nice  pair  of 
scissors  in  a  red  morrocco  case. 

Her  father  was  pleased  with  her  joy,  and  he 
kissed  her  affectionately  as  he  said, — 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  make  my  Clara  this  birth- 
day present,  and  I  am  glad  to  find  that  she  is 
correcting  some  of  her  bad  habits  of  idleness  and 
disorder." 

"  Oh  yes,  father,  I  have  tried  very  hard  to  do 
better.  I  always  kept  my  pretty  work-box  in  my 
mind,  and  whenever  I  felt  tempted  to  be  idle  or 
careless,  I  would  count  the  days  that  I  had  got  to 
try  for  it,  and  that  would  help  me  to  persevere. 
And  now  the  happy  day  has  come  at  last,  and  I 
have  got  my  beautiful  box ;  "  and  Clara  danced 
around  the  room  in  her  joy. 

Her  father  smiled,  but  in  a  moment  he  looked 
grave  and  thoughtful,  and,  calling  Clara  to  his 
side,  he  put  his  arm  around  her  and  said,  — 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  offered  you  this  reward, 
my  daughter  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  you  wanted  to  make  me  a  better 
girl,  father,  and  you  thought  this  would  be  the 
best  way  to  do  it." 


142  Clara? s  Birthday. 

"  Not  exactly,  Clara.  I  did  not  expect  that  try- 
ing for  the  work-box  would  make  you  really  a 
better  girl,  but  I  thought  that  it  might  help  you 
to  correct  some  of  your  bad  habits,  and  make  it 
easier  for  you  to  be  good  at  some  future  time." 

"  But  shall  I  not  be  good,  father,  when  I  have 
corrected  my  faults?" 

"  You  must  learn  to  .correct  them  from  right 
motives,  Clara.  The  hope  of  reward  is  a  selfish 
motive.  It  is  right  to  induce  children  and  some 
other  persons  to  do  good  from  this  motive,  because 
it  helps  them  to  overcome  evil  habits ;  but  I  wish 
my  little  girl  to  remember  that  the  motive  makes 
the  deed,  and  that  no  action  is  ever  really  good 
which  is  done  from  a  selfish  motive.  Can  you 
understand  this  hard  lesson  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  father,  I  understand  what  you  mean, 
but  it  makes  me  very  sorry,  for  I  thought  I  had 
been  such  a  good  girl,  and  now  I  find  that  I  have 
not." 

"You  need  not  be  sorry,  Clara.  You  have 
done  very  right  in  trying  so  perseveringly  to  con- 
quer your  faults  from  the  motive  which  your  father 
gave  you  ;  and  your  pretty  box  is  a  token  of  my 
approbation.  But  now  that  you  are  ten  years  old, 


Clara's  Birthday.  143 

it  is  time  that  you  learned  to  examine  your  mo- 
tives a  little.  I  want  you  to  think  over  what  I 
have  told  you,  and  resolve  to  try  from  now  till 
your  next  birthday  to  do  right,  not  from  the  hope 
of  reward,  but  because  you  love  to  obey  the  com- 
mandments of  the  Lord.  This  will  be  very  hard 
at  first.  Even  grown  people  find  it  difficult,  and 
a  great  many  do  it  very  imperfectly,  and  some  not 
at  all ;  but  I  wish  my  little  daughter  to  grow  up 
to  be  a  truly  good  woman,  and  therefore  I  am 
trying  to  teach  her  that  the  motive  makes  the 
deed." 

"  And  I  will  try  to  remember  it,  father.  It 
shall  be  my  motto.  And  now  may  I  go  to  my 
mother  and  show  her  my  box,  and  tell  her  all  that 
you  have  said  to  me  ?  " 

"  All  that  you  can  remember,  Clara.  Your 
mother  is  not  very  well  this  morning,  and  will 
not  leave  her  room." 

Clara  was  grieved  to  hear  this,  for  she  was  a 
very  affectionate  little  girl,  and  she  loved  her 
parents  dearly.  She  put  both  arms  around  her 
mother's  neck  and  kissed  her  many  times,  and 
asked  her  if  she  had  the  headache,  and  what  she 
could  do  to  make  her  feel  better. 


144  Clara's  Birthday. 

Her  mother  told  her  that  her  head  had  ached 
badly  all  night,  but  she  hoped  it  would  soon  be 
better,  if  she  could  be  still  a  little  while,  and  not  be 
disturbed  by  the  yonnger  children  ;  and  Clara  said 
she  would  be  very  kind  to  her  little  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  would  help  to  take  care  of  the  baby. 

She  showed  her  mother  her  birthday  present, 
but  did  not  then  tell  her  what  her  father  had  said, 
because  she  knew  that  talking  would  make  her 
head  ache  worse.  She  left  the  room  softly,  and 
went  to  the  nursery,  where  she  found  Lizzie,  the 
girl,  dressing  the  children.  They  did  not  all  look 
very  pleasant,  for  they  were  accustomed  to  having 
their  mother  dress  them,  and  were  not  willing  to 
have  Lizzie  attend  to  them. 

Henry,  who  was  next  to  Clara  in  age,  would  not 
stand  still  to  have  his  hair  brushed  ;  but  when  he 
saw  his  sister  coming  in,  looking  so  neat  and 
cheerful,  he  felt  a  little  ashamed,  and  allowed  the 
girl  to  smooth  his  curly  locks.  The  little  twins, 
Mary  and  Ellen,  were  both  crying  for  mamma ; 
but  when  sister  Clara  spoke  kindly  to  them,  and 
promised  to  show  them  her  new  box  as  soon  as 
they  were  dressed,  they  dried  their  tears,  and 
begged  Lizzie  to  get  them  ready  as  soon  as  she 


Clarets  Birthday.  145 

could.  Then  dear  little  Willie,  the  youngest  of 
all,  crept  up  to  Clara  and  hid  his  face  in  her  dress, 
and  when  she  took  him  in  her  arms  and  asked 
him  how  much  he  loved  sister,  he  lisped  "  dee," 
which  was  his  word  for  dearly,  so  sweetly,  that  it 
made  her  feel  very  happy,  and  she  kissed  him, 
and  told  him  he  was  a  darling  babv. 

After  breakfast,  as  it  \vas  a  fine  morning,  the 
children  were  all  allowed  to  play  in  the  yard  and 
garden,  and  the  house  was  so  quiet  that  their 
mother  got  some  rest ;  and  about  the  middle  of 
the  forenoon  she  felt  a  little  better,  and  was  able 
to  sit  in  the  large  rocking-chair,  and  the  children 
were  allowed  to  go  into  her  room  to  see  her.  But 
her  head  still  ached,  and  she  could  not  bear  much 
noise,  so  they  did  not  stay  long. 

After  Lizzie  had  taken  the  younger  children 
away,  Mrs.  Merrill,  Clara's  mother,  drew  her  little 
girl  to  her  side,  and  took  from  the  table  a  beautiful 
book  of  pictures  and  stories,  which  she  told  her 
was  for  a  birthdav  gift. 

Clara  was   much  pleased,    for  she  had    not   ex- 
pected to  receive  anv  other  present  than  the  work- 
box.     She    kissed    her    mother,  and    thanked     her, 
and  then  asked  if  she  was  now  willing   that  she 
10 


146  Clara's  Birthday. 

should  go  and  invite  several  of  her  little  friends  in 
the  neighborhood  to  come  and  pass  the  afternoon 
with  her,  as  her  mother  had  promised  her  she 
should  do  if  the  day  was  fine. 

Mrs.  Merrill  hesitated.  She  did  not  love  to 
disappoint  Clara  of  this  long-expected  pleasure, 
but  she  was  unwilling  to  have  the  little  party  on 
a  day  when  she  felt  too  ill  to  leave  her  room,  for 
she  always  shared  in  the  sports  of  her  children, 
and  knew  very  well  that  they  would  not  be  so 
good  and  happy  without  her.  So,  after  a  little 
thought,  she  told  Clara  that  she  should  prefer  not 
to  have  the  party  for  another  week. 

The  little  'girl  looked  very  much  disappointed, 
but  she  did  not  speak  a  word ;  and  her  mother, 
wishing  to  console  her,  told  her  that  the  straw- 
berries would  be  ripe  then,  and  the  garden  would 
look  more  beautiful  with  the  bright  flowers. 

"  Please,  mother,"  said  Clara,  "  do  not  tell  me 
about  those  things.  I  want  to  be  willing  to  give 
up  the  party  from  right  motives ;  if  I  am  only 
willing  to  give  it  up  becaj-ise  it  will  be  so  much 
more  pleasant  in  another  week,  those  will  be 
selfish  motives." 

Mrs.  Merrill  did  not  know  of  the  conversation 


Clara's  Birthday.  147 

which  Clara  had  with  her  father  in  the  morning, 
and  she  was  quite  surprised  to  hear  her  talking 
of  the  motives  of  her  conduct. 

Then  Clara  told  her  all  that  her  father  had  said 
to  her,  and  how  she  had  resolved  to  try  to  do 
right  from  good  motives. 

"And  so,  mother,"  she  said,  "I  am  trying  to 
be  willing  to  give  up  my  party  because  you  are 
ill,  and  think  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  do  so, 
and  not  because  I  shall  have  more  pleasure  another 
time." 

'•That  is  right,  dear,"  said  her  mother ;  "and 
I  am  glad  that  my  daughter  is  trying  to  keep  so 
good  a  resolution.  It  is  sometimes  a  difficult 
task  to  make  our  motives  good,  but  if  we  ask 
the  Lord  to  help  us,  the  kind  angels  will  come 
near,  and  teach  us  how  to  do  right." 

••  But  I  cannot  see  the  angels,  mother." 

••  Xo,  you  cannot  see  them  because  your  spiritual 
eyes  are  not  opened  ;  but  when  good  thoughts  and 

feelings  come   into  your  mind,  and    you   desire    to 

t 
perform   good  actions,  you  may   know   that   they 

are  speaking  to  you,  and  trying  to  lead  you  in 
the  right  way.  Always  listen  to  them,  dear  Clara, 
and  you  will  become  more  and  more  like  them, 


148  Clara's  Birthday. 

until  the  Lord  calls  you  to  your  heavenly  home, 
and  then  you  will  also  become  an  angel." 

"  I  will  try,  dear  mother,"  said  Clara  ;  and  then 
she  went  softly  from  the  room,  and  joined  her 
little  brothers  and  sisters,  who  were  impatiently 
waiting  for  her. 

The  birthday  passed  happily  away,  and  Clara's 
dreams  that  night  were  pleasant,  for  she  had  tried 
to  do  right. 

And  now  that  the  new  year  had  been  so  well 
begun,  perhaps  our  little  readers  will  think  that 
it  could  not  be  very  difficult  to  keep  her  resolution, 
and  remember  the  motto  that  the  "  motive  makes 
the  deed."  But  Clara  often  found  it  very  hard 
indeed  ;  and  if  her  kind  father  and  mother  had  not 
watched  over  her  and  encouraged  her,  and  taught 
her  to  feel  that  the  angels  were  always  ready  to 
help  her,  she  would  have  often  been  quite  dis- 
couraged. But,  as  she  persevered,  her  task  gradu- 
ally became  more  easv. 

At  first,  she  could  not  always  tell  whether  her 
motives  were  good  or  evil,  and  would  sometimes 
think  she  had  done  a  very  good  action,  when  upon 
strict  examination  she  would  find  that  the  motives 
were  wrong. 


Clara's  Birthday.  149 

"My  Clara  looks  very  bright  and  happy  this 
morning,"  said  Mrs.  Merrill,  as  her  daughter  en- 
tered the  room  with  her  bonnet  on,  and  her  books 
under  her  arm,  all  ready  for  school. 

'•It  is  such  a  bright,  pleasant  morning,  mother, 
that  it  makes  me  feel  happy  ;  and  besides  this,  my 
own  lessons  are  all  well  prepared,  so  that  I  shall 
have  a  great  deal  of  time  to  help  Addy  ;  and  this 
makes  me  glad,  for  I  love  to  help  her." 

"Who  is  Addy,  Clara?  I  think  you  have  never 
told  me  about  her." 

"I  thought  I  had  told  you,  mother,  but  she  has 
only  been  to  our  school  for  a  few  days.  Her  name 
is  Adeline  Morse.  She  is  nearly  as  old  as  I  am, 
but,  until  lately,  her  health  has  been  very  poor,  so 
that  she  could  not  attend  to  her  studies ;  and  in 
many  things  she  does  not  know  as  much  as  some 
of  the  youngest  girls.  Our  teacher  talked  to  us 
about  her  before  she  came,  and  told  us  that  we 
must  try  to  help  her  all  we  could,  and  be  careful 
never  to  laugh  at  her  ignorance.  So  we  all  prom- 
ised to  be  kind  to  her ;  and  indeed,  mother,  she 
is  such  a  sweet  little  girl,  that  no  one  can  help 
loving  her.  She  is  always  so  much  pleased  when 
she  has  learned  anything  new,  and  will  kiss  you 


150  Clara's  Birthday. 

and  thank  you  so  much  for  teaching  her.  She  sits 
with  me,  so  I  show  her  more  about  her  lessons 
than  any  one  else,  and  I  promised  Miss  Leslie 
to  study  hard  myself,  and  learn  some  lessons  at 
home,  so  that  I  might  have  time.  She  said  I  was 
a  very  good  girl  to  love  to  help  Adcly." 

"It  is  very  kind  in  you,  certainly.  Clara,  but 
you  must  be  careful  not  to  forget  your  motto." 

"  '  The  motive  makes  the  deed  ! '  No,  mother, 
I  will  not  forget  it ;  but  you  know  my  motive  in 
teaching  Addy  must  be  good.  I  do  not  receive 
any  reward  for  doing  it." 

"Not  exactly,  Clara,  and  yet  I  think  I  can  see 
that  selfishness  might  become  mixed  with  your 
love  of  being  useful  to  her.  Guard  your  heart 
^carefully,  my  daughter.  And  now  kiss  me,  and  I 
will  bid  you  good-morning,  for  it  is  time  you  were 
on  your  way." 

"  I  will  walk  fast,  mother,  for  I  have  received 
no  mark  for  tardiness  this  term." 

And  with  an  affectionate  good-morning,  Clara 
was  soon  walking  rapidly  toward  the  school-house. 

Very  truly  had  Clara  said  that  Adeline  was  a 
"  s\veet  little  girl."  She  came  forward  to  meet 
her  new  friend  with  such  a  glad,  loving  smile,  and 


Clara's  Birthday.  151 

twined  her  arms  ai'ound  her  neck  so  gently,  as 
she  whispered,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come, 
dear  Clara  ;  my  lesson  in  arithmetic  is  very  diffi- 
cult this  morning,  and  now  you  will  explain  it 
all  to  me.  The  other  girls  would  have  shown 
me,  but  I  would  rather  wait  for  you." 

Clara's  bright  face  grew  brighter  still,  as  she 
heard  these  words.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  be 
looked  up  to,  and  to  feel  that  Adeline  loved  her, 
and  valued  her  assistance  so  highly. 

"  I  will  show  you  in  one  moment,  dear  Addy," 
she  replied,  "just  as  soon  as  I  have  hung  up  my 
bonnet." 

Clara  was  an  excellent  scholar  for  her  age,  and 
what  had  appeared  difficult  to  Adeline  seemed 
very  plain  to  her,  and  she  soon  succeeded  in 
making  it  equally  so  to  her  little  companion. 
Both  were  pleased  and  happy,  and  the  teacher 
bestowed  praises  upon  both  when  the  well-learned 
lesson  was  recited. 

For  several  weeks  Clara  continued  to  render 
daily  assistance  to  her  friend,  and  Adeline  made 
great  improvement  under  her  tuition.  Nothing 
gave  Clara  more  pleasure  than  to  hear  the  praises 
which  were  frequently  bestowed  upon  her  little 


152  Clara's  Birthday. 

pupil,  and  she  often  learned  her  own  lessons  in 
play-hours,  that  she  might  have  more  leisure  to 
attend  to  Adeline. 

One  morning  she  was  unavoidably  detained  at 
home  until  a  late  hour.  Her  mother  gave  her  a 
written  excuse  for  her  teacher,  and  as  soon  as  she 
had  handed  it  to  her,  she  took  her  seat.  It  was 
nearly  time  for  Adeline's  class  to  recite  in  arith- 
metic, and  the  little  girl  was  very  busily  engaged 
with  a  long  sum. 

"  I  will  show  you  now,  Addy,"  whispered  Clara. 
"I  could  not  come  before." 

"  Please,  Clara,  do  not  speak  to  me  for  one 
minute,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  do  believe  I  shall 
get  it  right  myself,  and  I  have  tried  so  long." 

Clara  turned  away  to  attend  to  her  own  lessons. 
There  was  no  reason  for  her  feeling  hurt  or  out 
of  humor.  Adeline  had  spoken  very  gently,  and 
it  was  certainly  right  for  her  to  wish  to  do  the 
sum  without  assistance,  if  she  could.  Why,  then, 
did  Clara  feel  unkindly  ;  and  why,  when  the  slate 
was  handed  to  the  teacher,  and  the  answer  pro- 
nounced correct,  did  she  turn  coldly  away  from 
the'  sparkling  glance  which  her  friend  directed 
toward  her,  as  if  for  sympathy  in  her  joy? 


Clarcfs  Birthday.  153 

"Are  you  sick,  dear  Clara?"  asked  Adeline,  as 

she  again  took  her  seat  at  her  side. 

• 
"Not  at  all,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  must  study  my 

lessons.     It  is  very  late." 

"  Then  I  will  try  not  to  disturb  you  with  ques- 
tions. Perhaps  I  can  find  all  those  places  upon 
the  map  myself.  There  is  nothing  like  trying. 
I  thought  I  should  never  do  that  long  sum,  but 
it  was  right  at  last." 

Intent  upon  her  own  lesson,  arid  desirous  not 
to  disturb  her  friend,  Adeline  did  not,  for  some 
time,  discover  Clara's  ill-humor.  At  length,  how- 
ever, after  a  long  search  for  one  of  the  many 
places  which  she  was  to  find  upon  the  map,  she 
turned  to  her  for  assistance. 

"Just  this  one  place,  if  you  please,  Clara ;  I 
will  try  not  to  interrupt  you  again." 

"  There  is  nothing  like  trying,"  replied  Clara 
shortlv.  "You  had  better  find  it  yourself." 

Adeline  looked  with  a  surprised  and  mournful 
expression  in  Clara's  face. 

"Have  I  done  anything  to  offend  you,  Clara?" 
she  asked,  gently. 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  reply,  "but  it  is  better  for 
you  to  depend  upon  yourself." 


154  Clarets  Birthday. 

With  tears  in  her  eyes,  Adeline  returned  to  her 
task.  The  place  was  found  at  length,  but  she 
wns  still  very  sad,. for  the  ill-humor  of  her  friend 
appeared  to  her  'unaccountable. 

In  vain  she  endeavored  to  find  out  the  cause : 
Clara  would  give  no  explanation ;  —  indeed,  she 
continued  to  say  that  nothing  was  the  matter,  but 
it  was  quite  evident  that  this  was  untrue. 

When  school  was  dismissed,  instead  of  walking 
along  arm-in-arm  as  usual,  the  two  little  girls 
rather  seemed  to  avoid  each  other,  and  went  home 
by  different  paths. 

Everything  seemed  to  go  wrong  with  Clara. 
She  had  listened  to  the  voice  of  the  evil  spirits, 
and  the  good  angels  were  not  near  her  now. 
Every  duty  seemed  irksome,  and  was  unwillingly 
performed.  Toward  evening,  her  mother  re- 
quested her  to  take  charge  of  the  baby  for  an 
hour,  as  the  girl  had  gone  out,  and  she  herself 
was  busily  engaged  with  some  sewing. 

Clara  made  no  objection,  but  was  so  careless 
and  inattentive  to  the  little  boy's  wants,  that  he 
soon  wearied  of  her  care. 

"  I  cannot  keep  him  quiet,  mother,"  said  Clara, 


Clara's  Birthday.  155 

in  answer  to  a  remonstrance  from  her  mother. 
"  I  am  sure  I  have  tried  my  best." 

"  Your  heart  is  not  in  it,  Clara,"  was  the  reply, 
"  and  therefore  you  do  not  succeed.  I  am  sorry 
on  your  own  account;  for,  if  I  am  obliged  to  leave 
my  work,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  complete  your 
new  frock  in  season  for  you  to  wear  it  to  the  little 
party  to  which  you  are  invited  to-morrow." 

Clara  had  not  thought  of  this.  She  was  very 
desirous  to  wear  her  new  frock  to  the  party. 

"  Stop  one  minute,  mother,"  she  said;  "please 
do  not  take  Willie  yet,  and  I  will  get  my  doll  for 
him.  That  always  makes  him  stop  crying." 

Clara's  heart  was  in  it  now,  and  the  baby  was 
soon  contented  and  happy. 

When  it  was  nearly  dusk,  and  Mrs.  Merrill  laid 
aside  her  work  and  was  ready  to  take  him,  Clara 
looked  triumphantly  at  the  clock,  as  she  said, — 

"  I  have  kept  Willie  happy  for  an  hour  and  a 
half,  mother.  Is  not  that  doing  pretty  well?" 

'•  The  deed  was  good,  certainly,  Clara,  if  the 
motive  was  an  unselfish  one." 

Clara  made  no  reply.  This  was  the  first  time 
she  had  thought  of  her  motto  through  the  day. 
She  appeared  to  be  thinking  deeply,  and  her 


156  Clarcfs  Birthday. 

mother  did  not  disturb  her,  but  left  the  room  to 
put  the  baby  to  bed. 

"  The  motive  makes  the  deed,"  repeated  Clara 
to  herself,  when  she  was  left  alone.  u  No  wonder 
father  told  me  that  it  was  difficult  to  remember 
this.  I  did  not  care  anything  about  pleasing 
Willie  until  I  found  that  if  I  did  not,  I  could  not 
have  my  new  dress  to  wear  to-morrow.  That 
was  a  selfish  motive,  and  I  believe  I  have  been 
selfish  all  the  afternoon.  Everything  has  seemed 
to  go  wrong." 

Clara  was  a  little  girl,  but  she  had  been  taught 
to  examine  herself,  and  her  thoughts  now  went 
back  to  the  school-room,  and  she  continued  her 
examination. 

"  I  was  cross  this  morning,  also,"  she  said. 
"PoorAddy!  I  wonder  what  made  me  treat  her 
so  unkindly.  I  have  always  loved  to  help  her 
before.  Somehow  it  made  me  cross  when  I  found 
that  she  had  learned  her  arithmetic  lesson  without 
me,  but  I  do  not  know  why  it  should  ;  —  I  ought 
to  have  been  glad.  There  is  father  walking  in 
the  garden  ;  I  will  go  and  tell  him  all  about  it, 
and  he  will  help  me  to  see  how  I  have  done 
\vrong." 


Clara's  Birthday.  157 

This  was  a  very  wise  resolution.  Children 
should  always  recollect  that  their  parents  are 
their  best  advisers.  They  should  never  conceal 
their  faults  from  them,  but  frankly  tell  all  their 
thoughts  and  feelings,  and  be  guided  by  their 
advice. 

Mr.  Merrill  listened  very  kindly  to  Clara's  little 
story.  He  was  very*  glad  to  find  that  she  was 
learning  to  examine  the  motives  of  her  actions, 
and  he  could  see  very  plainly  why  she  had  felt 
disturbed  and  vexed  at  finding  that  Adeline  could 
learn-  a  lesson  without  her  assistance. 

"  We  are  often  mistaken  in  our  motives,  dear 
Clara,"  he  said,  "  and  it  sometimes  takes  some 
severe  lessons  to  help  us  to  understand  them.  I 
suppose  you  have  always  thought,  that  in  assist- 
ing your  little  friend,  you  were  trying  only  to  do 
her  good." 

••  Yes,  father,  I  did  not  receive  any  reward  for 
teaching  her." 

t%  Did  not  your  teacher  frequently  praise  you  for 
your  kindness.  Clara  ;  and  did  not  Adeline  herself 
show  you  much  gratitude  and  love  on  this  ac- 
count?" 


158  Clara's  Birthday. 

"  Yes,  father,  but  I  do  not  think  I  did  it  for  the 
sake  of  receiving  their  praise." 

"  Not  wholly,  Clara,  but  this  must  have  been 
partly  your  motive.  If  you  had  felt  no  desire 
for  any  reward  excepting  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Adeline  improve,  you  would  not  have  felt  dis- 
pleased when  you  found  that  she  was  learning  to 
do  without  your  assistance.  On  the  contrary,  you 
would  have  felt  pleased  and  happy.  The  little 
occurrence  of  this  morning  shows  you  that  your 
motives  were  not  entirely  unselfish.  You  thought 
more  of  the  praise  which  you  received,  and  of 
the  gratitude  which  Adeline  showed  you,  than 
you  did  of  the  good  which  you  were  doing." 

Clara  was  quite  silent  for  some  minutes,  and 
then  she  said,  — 

"  I  think  you  are  right,  father.  I  can  see  now 
that  my  motives  were  not  wholly  good.  But 
indeed  I  thought  they  were.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  could  never  be  tired  of  teaching  Adeline.  I 
loved  to  do  it  so  much,  and  I  thought  it  was  such 
a  good  thing  to  do.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  never  be 
good,  father." 

"  You  must  not  be  discouraged,  Clara.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  you  have  done  Adeline  a  great  deal 


Clara's  Birthday.  159 

of  good,  and  from  right  motives,  too.  A  little 
selfishness  has  crept  in,  but  now  you  have  dis- 
covered it,  you  will  try  to  put  it  away." 

"  Yes,  father,  and  I  will  ask  my  Heavenly 
Father  to  help  me  ;  and  now  I  will  go  and  tell 
mother  all  about  it,  and  ask  her  to  forgive  me  for 
having  been  so  cross  this  afternoon.  Everything 
went  wrong  after  I  was  unkind  to  Adeline." 

"  Evil  spirits  were  near  you,  my  daughter. 
Little  by  little  you  will  learn  to  guard  your  heart 
from  them." 

Very  earnestly  did  Clara  try  to  keep  the  angels 
near  to  her.  She  and  Adeline  soon  became 
warmer  friends  than  ever  before,  but  there  was 
less  selfishness  mingled  with  their  love.  Clara 
was  still  ever  ready  to  assist  her  friend  in  her 
studies  when  it  was  really  necessary,  but  she  also 
seemed  most  happy  when  she  could  accomplish 
the  task  by  her  own  perseverance  ;  and  Adeline, 
although  less  dependent  upon  Clara,  found  great 
encouragement  and  pleasure  in  her  kindness  and 
sympathy. 

New  trials  were  continually  arising,  and  it  was 
still  difficult  to  keep  the.  motto  in  mind.  It  was 
easier  to  do  right  in  great  things  than  in  little 


160  Clara's  Birthday. 

ones,  Clara  often  said,  and  this  is  very  true.  A 
great  many  grown  people,  as  well  as  children,  find 
it  easier  to  do  right  when  some  very  important 
duty  is  to  be  performed,  than  to  do  good  continu- 
ally in  trifling,  every-day  duties. 

Often,  when  playing  with  her  brothers  and 
sisters,  or  her  young  companions,  Clara  would 
find  herself  in  danger  of  being  selfish;  and  often, 
also,  when  she  had  done  what  seemed  to  be  right, 
she  would  discover  that  the  motive  which  prompted 
the  action  was  not  what  it  ought  to  have  been  ; 
but  still  she  persevered,  and  gradually  she  learned 
to  examine  her  motives  before  she  commenced  any 
new  undertaking. 

Her  mother  had  taken  into  the  family  a  little 
colored  girl,  whom  she  intended  to  educate  and 
bring  up,  to  assist  her  in  the  house.  The  child  was* 
very  ignorant,  and  Mrs.  Merrill  proposed  to  Clara 
that  she  should  teach  her  to  read. 

Clara  was  delighted,  and  for  some  days  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  Every  leisure  moment  was 
devoted  to  her  new  pupil,  but  the  child  was  inat- 
tentive and  dull,  and  she  soon  wearied  of  her  task, 
and,  before  long,  entirely  neglected  it. 

"Has  Annie  learned  all  her  letters  yet?"  asked 


Clara's  Birthday.  161 

Mr.  Men-ill,  as  he  saw  the  little  girl  with  a  book 
in  her  hand  one  morning. 

"I  believe  not,  father,  —  I  am  not  sure.  It  is 
some  time  since  I  have  heard  her  read,"  replied 
Clara,  blushing. 

"  But  I  thought  you  had  taken  charge  of  that 
branch  of  her  education,  Clara." 

*'  So  I  did,  father ;  but  she  is  so  idle  and  dull, 
that  there  is  no  pleasure  in  teaching  her." 

"  Was  pleasure  your  motive  in  undertaking  to 
teach  her,  Clara  ?  " 

Clara  blushed  again  as  she  answered, — 

"  I  am  afraid  it  was  partly  my  motive,  father. 
I  thought  it  would  be  a  very  easy  task,  and  that  I 
should  enjoy  doing  it,  but  I  was  mistaken." 

"  Supposing  you  try  again  from  different  mo- 
tives, Clara  ;  I  think  you  would  succeed." 

Clara  thought  for  a  little  while.  She  did  not 
feel  very  willing  to  do  what  her  father  proposed, 
and  yet  she  knew  that  it  would  be  doing  right. 
She  did  not  answer  hastily,  therefore,  but  after 
considering  a  little,  she  said  earnestly, — 

"  I  will  try  to  do  it  from  good  motives,  father." 

"  That  is  all  I  wish  you  to  do,  my  child  ;  and 
if  you  try,  I  feel  sure  you  will  succeed." 
II 


1 62  Clarets  Birthday. 

Three  months  after  this  conversation,  little  Annie 
could  read  fluently  in  easy  reading,  and  her  young 
teacher  said  that  she  had  become  so  industrious, 
and  easy  to  learn,  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  teach 
her. 

"  So  you  have  the  pleasure  after  all,  Clara," 
observed  her  father,  smilingly,  as  he  heard  this 
remark. 

"  Yes,  father,  but  that  is  not  the  reason  that  I 
teach  her." 

"  I  know  it,  my  daughter,  and  it  makes  me  very 
happy  to  think  that  you  are  beginning  to  find 
pleasure  in  the  faithful  performance  of  duty.  This 
is  the  only  true  happiness." 

The  year  passed  swiftly  away,  and  again  it  was 
Clara's  birthday.  She  was  not  now  anticipating 
any  beautiful  gift  as  a  reward  for  her  improvement, 
but  this  did  not  prevent  her  from  feeling  very 
happy.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  her  that  this  was  the 
happiest,  most  lovely  birthday  she  had  ever  known. 
Again  ghe  gat  by  the  open  window,  and,  as  she 
breathed  the  fragrance  of  the  honeysuckle,  listened 
to  the  music  of  the  birds,  and  rejoiced  in  the 
bright  sunshine,  her  little  heart  seemed  filled  with 
love  and  gratitude  to  her  Heavenly  Father,  who, 


Clarets  Birth  day.  1 63 

during  the  past  year,  had  enabled  her  to  shun 
many  evil  ways,  and  to  love  to  keep  His  com- 
mandments move  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 

While  she  was  thinking  of  these  things,  her 
father's  kind  voice  was  heard  at  the  door  bidding 
her  good-morning,  and  she  hastened  to  open  it, 
and  to  tell  him  how  happy  she  felt  on  this  beau- 
tiful birthday  morning. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  happy,  my  daughter,  and 
here  is  a  birthday  gift  from  your  mother  and  my- 
self; "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  handed  a  very  small 
package  to  Clara. 

She  opened  it,  and,  to  her  surprise  and  joy, 
found  a  beautiful  ring,  with  a  bright  red  stone  in 
it,  just  such  as  she  had  often  wished  for. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  father!"  she  exclaimed;  "I 
never -had  a  ring  before  in  all  my  life.  Only  look! 
it  fits  me  exactly,  arid  it  is  so  bright  and  pretty." 

"This  ring  has  another  virtue  besides  its  beauty," 
said  Mr.  Merrill,  smiling  at  her  joy.  "  Look  in 
the  inside." 

Clara  looked,  and  found  these  words  neatly  en- 
graven :  "The  motive  makes  the  deed." 


HENRTS  NAP  IN  THE   ARBOR. 

AM  so  glad  there  is  no  school 
this  afternoon,"  said  little  Henry  Warren, 
"  for  now  I  can  read  the  new  book  that 
Aunt  Martha  sent  me.  And  after  I  have 
read  it,  mother,"  he  continued,  "  may  I 
lend  it  to  Johnny  Roper?  for  you  know  he  is  sick, 
and  cannot  go  out  to  play,  and  he  likes  to  read 
very  much." 

"Yes,  you  may  lend  it  to  him,"  replied  Mrs. 
Warren  ;  "  and  I  am  glad  thaf  you  wish  to  do  so. 
I  love  to  have  you  kind  and  thoughtful." 

"  I  should  not  like  to  be  selfish,  mother,"  said 
Henry  ;  "  Georgie  Blake  has  got  a  new  book,  and 
Johnny's  sister  asked'  him  if  he  would  lend  it  to 
her  for  Johnny  to  read ;  but  he  would  not  let  her 
take  it.  He  only  said  that  he  did  not  like  to  lend 
his  books ;  he  was  afraid  they  would  get  spoiled." 
164 


Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor.       165 

"  That  was  not  very  kind,  certainly,"  answered 
his  mother ;  "  but  perhaps  you  do  selfish  things 
sometimes,  Henry,  though  not  exactly  of  the 
same  kind." 

"  No,  mother,  I  do  not  think  I  am  selfish,"  re- 
plied Henry,  looking  very  earnestly  in  his  mother's 
face.  '•  I  always  lend  my  books  and  toys,  and, 
very  often,  when  I  have  candy  or  fruit,  I  give  a 
part  of  it  away.  I  gave  Sam  Gordon  half  of  the 
pear  that  you  gave  me  this  morning." 

'•  But  there  are  a  great  many  ways  of  being 
selfish,  besides  being  unwilling  to  give  away  or 
lend  our  things,  Henry,"  said  his  mother,  smiling 
a  little  at  his  earnestness ;  "  but  we  will  not  talk 
about  them  now,  as  you  are  in  haste  to  read  your 
new  book.  I  have  looked  it  over,  and  I  think 
you  will  find  it  very  interesting." 

"  I  think  so  too,  mother,  for  Aunt  Martha 
always  sends  me  very  interesting  books.  I  will 
sit  in  my  favorite  seat  by  the  window  in  the 
sitting-room." 

Henry  ran  for  his  book,  and  was  soon  seated 
by  the  window,  reading  away  very  busily.  He 
had  been  engaged  in  this  way  about  half  an  hour, 
when  he  heard  footsteps  in  the  yard  ;  and,  peeping 


1 66       Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor. 

through  the  closed  blind,  he  saw  two  boys,  con- 
siderably younger  than  himself,  walking  along 
the  path  which  led  to  the  house. 

"  Oh  dear ! "  said  Henry  to  himself,  "  if  there 
isn't  Charlie  and  Willie  Lewis.  I  do  wish  they 
had  stayed  at  home.  I  don't  want  to  play  with 
them  one  bit.  I  will  go  and  tell  mother." 

So  saying,  Henry  rose  from  his  seat,  and  went 
to  the  room  where  Mrs.  Warren  was  busy  with 
her  sewing. 

"Mother,"  said  he,  as  he  opened  the  door, 
"  Charlie  and  Willie  Lewis  are  coming  up  the 
yard.  I  suppose  they  have  come  to  play  with 
me,  but  I  want  to  read  very  much  ;  and,  besides, 
they  are  such  little  fellows,  there  is  no  fun  in 
playing  with  them.  Could  you  please  send  them 
home,  mother?" 

"  Why,  Henry,  that  would  be  very  rude  and 
unkind.  What  could  I  say  to  them?" 

"  Tell  them  that  you  want  me  this  afternoon, 
can't  you,  mother?  You  know  you  do  want  me 
to  read  my  book." 

Mrs.  Warren  shook  her  head.  "  No,  no,  Henry," 
she  said,  "  that  would  not  be  strictly  true ;  and, 
besides  that,  it  would  be  selfish  to  send  the  chil- 


Henry* s  Nap  in  the  Arbor.       167 

dren  home,  merely  because  you  wish  to  read. 
You  do  not  •wish  to  be  selfish,  you  know.  Hark ! 
they  are  knocking.  Go  and  open  the  door  with 
a  pleasant  face,  my  son,  and  give  your  little 
friends  a  cordial  welcome.  You  will  enjoy  your 
book  all  the  more  another  time." 

Thus  urged,  Henry  went  to  the  door,  but  he 
did  it  slowly  and  reluctantly ;  and,  if  the  little 
boys  had  looked  in  his  face  when  he  asked  them 
to  walk  in,  they  would  certainly  have  seen  that 
he  was  not  very  glad  to  see  them. 

But  they  felt  a  little  shy  and  awkward  at 
coming  to  a  new  place,  so  they  kept  their  eyes 
fixed  on  the  floor,  and  only  said,  "  Yes,  ma'am," 
and  "No,  ma'am,"  when  Henry's  mother  asked 
them  any  questions.  The  weather  was  very  fine, 
and  Mrs.  \Yarren  presently  advised  Henry  to  take 
his  little  friends  into  the  yards  and  garden.  She 
knew  they  would  feel  more  at  home  out  of  doors, 
and  she  hoped  that  Henry  would  forget  his  dis- 
appointment, and  try  to  make  their  visit  pleasant 
to  them. 

But  Henry  was  not  only  vexed  that  his  reading 
was  interrupted,  but  he  was  also  a  little  displeased 
that  Charlie  and  Willie  should  have  come  to  visit 


i68       Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor. 

him.  Like  many  other  boys  of  nine  or  ten, 
he  felt  himself  altogether  too  large  to  play  with 
those  who  were  two  or  three  years  younger.  He 
walked  around  the  garden  with  his  little  visitors, 
and  showed  them  his  pet  rabbits  and  his  cliickens, 
but  he  did  not  propose  any  play,  or  make  any 
great  effort  to  amuse  them.  By  and  by  his  mother 
came  to  the  door,  and  gave  each  of  the  boys  a 
cake  and  an  apple,  and  advised  them  to  have  a 
game  of  hide  and  seek. 

"  Charlie  and  Willie  will  enjoy  it,  I  think,"  she 
said  to  Henry,  "  and  you  can  find  a  great  many 
good  places  to  hide  in,  around  the  yards  and  in 
the  barn." 

Henry  still  looked  very  sober,  but  he  made  no 
objection ;  and,  as  soon  as  they  had  finished 
eating,  they  began  the  game.  Charlie  and  Willie 
could  play  this  very  well.  Each  took  his  turn 
in  hiding,  and  then  came  Henry's  turn.  As  he 
passed  around  the  house  on  his  way  to  the  barn, 
where  he  intended  hiding,  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  his  new  book  through  the  half-open  blinds 
of  the  sitting-room.  It  was  lying  on  the  table  just 
where  he  had  left  it. 

"  Oh,  there  is  my  new  book,"  he  said  to  himself. 


Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor.       169 

/ 

"How  I  do  wish  I  could  read  in  it,  just  for  a  little 
while.  I  mean  to  put  my  hand  through  the  blind 
and  get  it,  and  hide  in  the  summer-house  at  the 
foot  of  the  garden.  The  boys  will  not  find  me 
there  very  soon,  and  I  shall  have  a  nice  time 
reading." 

So  Henry  pushed  the  blind  open  a  little  further, 
and  took  the  book  from  the  table,  and  buttoned  it 
under  his  jacket.  He  then  went  into  the  barn  for 
a  moment,  and  called  •'  whoop,"  loudly.  He  knew 
that  the  boys  would  listen  for  this  call,  and  be 
guided  by  the  sound  of  his  voice.  He  did  not  re- 
member that  it  would  be  wrong  to  deceive  them, 
and  make  them  think  that  he  was  in  the  barn, 
when  he  had  no  intention  of  hiding  there.  The 
moment  that  he  had  called  "  whoop,"  he  crept 
softly  out  of  a  back  door ;  and,  being  very  careful 
not  to  go  in  the  direction  where  the  boys  were,  he 
ran  quickly  into  the  garden,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
reached  the  little  summer-house.  It  was  a  very 
pleasant,  shady  place,  and  Henry  seated  himself 
with  great  satisfaction,  and  opened  his  book.  He 
read  one  chapter  with  much  pleasure  ;  but  then  he 
began  to  feel  a  little  uneasy  as  he  thought  of 
Charlie  and  Willie. 


170       Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor. 

"  They  must  have  searched  the  barn  all  over  by 
this  time,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  wonder  where 
they  will  look  next.  I  don't  believe  they  will  think 
of  this  place.  Perhaps  they  will  give  up,  and  go 
home.  I  wish  they  would  ;  but  then  mother  will 
say  I  was  rude.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  stop  read- 
ing, and  go  back  to  them  ;  but  it  is  so  stupid  play- 
ing with  such  little  fellows.  I  don't  see  what  they 
came  here  for." 

So  Henry  read  another  chapter,  and  by  that 
time  he  had  grown  still  more  uneasy,  but  now  he 
felt  ashamed  to  go  back  to  the  boys,  and  concluded 
to  wait  until  he  felt  pretty  sure  that  they  had  gone 
home. 

"  I  do  not  think  they  will  go  into  the  house,"  he 
said,  "  and  mother  will  know  nothing  about  it." 

But  still  Henry  did  not  feel  easy.  His  con- 
science told  him  that  he  had  done  wrong.  He  no 
longer  felt  any  interest  in  reading,  but  sat  quite 
still,  listening  for  the  footsteps  of  the  boys,  and 
thinking  what  his  mother  would  say  if  she  should 
find  out  what  he  had  done.  Pretty  soon  he  fell 
fast  asleep,  with  one  hand  still  tightly  clasping  his 
new  book,  while  the  other  rested  on  the  arm  of 


Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor.        171 

the  little  settee  which  formed  the  seat  of  the 
arbor. 

Charlie  and  Willie  meanwhile  having  searched 
the  barn  and  other  outbuildings  in  vain,  concluded 
that  Henry  must  have  gone  into  the  house  ;  and 
as  they  felt  unwilling  to  go  in  to  look  for  him, 
they  resolved  to  sit  down  under  the  trees  and  wait 
until  he  came  out ;  but,  after  waiting  a  long  time, 
they  grew  impatient  and  tired,  and  thought  they 
would  go  home. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  means  to  come  out  again," 
said  Charlie  ;  t;I  guess  his  mother  wants  him." 

"  He  ought  to  come  and  tell  us  so,"  replied 
Willie.  ••  I  do  not  think  he  is  at  all  polite." 

So  the  two  little  boys  went  home,  feeling  rather 
unkindly  toward  Henry.  Mrs.  Warren  being  busy 
with  her  work  in  the  house,  knew  nothing  of  what 
was  passing. 

A  little  before  five  o'clock,  Henry's  uncle  drove 
to  the  door  with  his  horse  and  chaise,  and  asked 
if  Henry  was  at  home. 

"Yes,"  replied  his  mother,  "he  is  round  the 
house,  somewhere ;  he  has  company  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Oh,  he  has   company ! "    repeated   his   uncle. 


172       Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor. 

"Never  mind,  then;  I  was  thinking  of  inviting 
him  to  take  a  ride.  I  have  business  about  five 
miles  from  here,  and  I  thought  he  would  like  to 
go  with  me." 

"  He  would  like  it  very  much,  I  am  sure,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Warren  ;  "  and,  as  the  little  boys  were 
to  go  home  at  five,  I  will  call  him,  and  let  him 
go,  if  you  can  wait  a  moment." 

"  Please  do  it  as  quickly  as  possible,"  returned 
her  brother,  "  for  it  is  growing  late,  and  I  am  in 
haste." 

Mrs.  Warren  ran  to  the  barn,  and  called  loudly 
for  Henry,  but  there  was  no  answer.  She  then 
went  into  the  back  yard,  but  he  was  not  there. 
She  opened  the  garden  gate  also,  and  looked  in 
and  called  once  or  twice,  but  the  summer-house 
was  at  the  most  distant  part  of  the  garden,  and 
Henry  was  sleeping  too  soundly  to  be  easily 
aroused.  Quite  disappointed,  she  returned  to  her 
brother. 

"  I  cannot  find  him,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will  not 
detain  you  any  longer.  He  has  probably  walked 
part  of  the  way  home  with  the  little  boys  who 
have  been  visiting  him." 

"  Very  likely,"  was  the  reply ;  and  in  another 


Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor.       173 

moment  the  chaise  was  wheeling  rapidly  out  of 
sight. 

"  I  am  really  sorry  that  Henry  could  not  have 
gone,"  said  Mrs.  Warren  to  herself,  as  she  walked 
into  the  house ;  ''it  would  have  given  him  so 
much  pleasure.  I  wonder  that  he  did  not  bring 
the  little  boys  into  the  house  to  bid  me  good-by 
before  they  went  home." 

Soon  after  this,  Mrs.  Warren  took  a  small  dish 
in  her  hand,  and  went  into  the  garden  to  gather 
some  fruit  for  tea.  There  were  some  fine  black- 
berries growing  in  the  lower  part  of  the  garden, 
and  she  had  noticed  in  the  morning  that  they 
were  quite  ripe.  She  soon  filled  her  dish,  and, 
in  returning  to  the  house,  she  happened  to  take 
a  path  which  led  directly  by  the  summer-house, 
or  arbor.  She  was  very  much  surprised,  as  you 
may  suppose,  when  she  saw  Henry  sitting  there, 
fast  asleep. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  shook 
him  a  little,  and  spoke  to  him  gently,  and  pretty 
soon  he  opened  his  eyes. 

At  first  he  looked  about  him,  quite  bewildered, 
but  in  a  minute  or  two  he  remembered  all  that 
had  passed. 


174       Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor. 

"Where  are  Charlie  and  Willie,  mother?  "he 
asked,  looking  earnestly  in  his  mother's  face. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Henry  ;  I  supposed  you  were 
with  them.  It  is  after  five  now.  How  long  have 
you  been  sleeping  here  ?  " 

"  After  five,  mother ! "  exclaimed  Henrv,  in 
astonishment.  "Why!  it  was  onlv  three  when 
I  came  here." 

"And  why  did  you  come  here,  Henry?  Where 
did  you  leave  the  little  boys  ?  " 

Henry  hung  his  head  and  looked  ashamed,  as 
he  heard  his  mother's  questions. 

"  Tell  me  the  whole  truth,  my  boy,"  continued 
his  mother.  "  I  presume  you  have  done  wrong, 
or  your  new  book  would  not  be  in  your  hands. 
The  best  thing  you  can  do  now,  is  to  be  perfectly 
honest  in  confessing  your  fault." 

So  Henry  told  his  mother  the  whole  story,  and 
did  not  try  to  excuse  himself  at  all. 

"I  know  that  it  was  wrong,  mother,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  am  very  sorry.  I  see  now  that  I  am 
selfish  in  some  ways,  although  I  am  willing  to 
lend  my  bo»ks  and  toys.  If  you  will  please  to 
tell  Charlie  and  Willie's  mother  all  about  it,  and 


Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor.       175 

ask  her  to  let  them  come  again,  I  will  try  to 
make  them  very  happy." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  are  willing  to  do  right 
about  it,  Henry,  and  I  will  think  what  had  better 
be  done.  I  suppose  the  little  boys  have  gone 
home,  for  I  have  looked  in  the  barn,  and  in 
several  other  places,  and  they  were  not  there. 
Your  uncle  came  to  ask  you  to  take  a  ride  with 
him,  a  little  before  five,  and  as  it  was  so  nearly 
time  for  the  boys  to  go,  I  thought  it  would  not 
be  wrong  for  you  to  leave  them,  but  I  could  not 
find  you,  and  your  uncle  was  ia  haste." 

Henry  felt  very  much  disappointed  when  he 
heard  of  the  pleasant  ride  he  had  lost,  and  his 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  he  did  not  say  a  word, 
for  he  knew  that  it  was  his  own  fault. 

His  mother  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  talked  kindly 
to  him  as  they  walked  together  to  the  house.  She 
saw  that  he  felt  grieved  and  ashamed  at  what 
had  happened,  and  she  was  careful  not  to  add 
to  his  trouble  by  any  reproaches.  A  few  days 
after  this,  she  called  upon  Mrs.  Lewis,  and  told 
her  the  whole  story,  and  begged  her  to  allow 
Charlie  and  Willie  to  pass  another  afternoon  with 


176       Henry's  Nap  in  the  Arbor. 

Henry,    and    Mrs.    Lewis   readily   consented    that 
they  should  do    so. 

This  second  visit  was  a  very  happy  one  to  all 
parties,  for  Henry  was  very  careful  not  to  think 
of  his  own  pleasure,  but  to  do  everything  in  his 
power  to  entertain  his  little  visitors  ;  and  they  were 
so  pleased  with  his  kindness,  that  they  told  their 
mother,  when  they  returned  home,  that  they  had 
never  passed  such  a  delightful  afternoon. 


MISCHIEVOUS  TOM; 

OR, 
IT  IS    ONLY  FOR    FUN. 

OM  STEVENS  was  an  intelligent 
k  and  good-tempered  boy,  and  was  gen- 
erally a  favorite  with  his  friends  and 
companions,  on  account  of  his  pleasant, 
obliging  disposition.  No  one  would 
have  thought  of  accusing  Tom  of  selfishness,  for 
he  was  always  ready  to  share  what  he  had  with 
others,  and  would  frequently  give  away  even  more 
than  he  kept  for  himself. 

Tom's  greatest  fault  seemed  to  be  too  strong  a 
love  for  what  he  called  fun;  and,  in  pursuing  his 
sports,  he  was  not  always  careful  to  regard  the 
feelings  and  comfort  of  those  around  him.  When 
a  very  little  boy,  he  would  snatch  away  the  rattle 
from  his  baby-brother,  and  hold  it  behind  him ; 
and,  when  the  infant  cried  and  held  out  his  little 
12  177 


178  Mischievous  Tom. 

hands,  Tom  would  laugh  loudly  as  he  handed  it  to 
him,  and  exclaim,  "  Oh,  what  good  fun  !  "  If  the 
dog  and  cat  were  quietly  eating  their  breakfast,  he 
would  brandish  a  stick  fever  their  heads,  and 
frighten  them  away ;  and  nothing  pleased  him 
more  than  to  jump  out  suddenly  from  behind  a 
door  when  some  one  was  passing  through,  and 
thus  startle  and  frighten  him. 

Tom's  parents  and  other  friends  often  talked  with 
him  concerning  this  fault,  and  tried  to  convince 
him  how  wrong  it  was.  They  told  him  that  it  was 
one  of  the  worst  kinds  of  selfishness  to  find  pleasure 
in  giving  pain  to  others ;  but  Tom,  although  he 
did  not  like  to  be  called  selfish,  took  no  pains  to 
reform ;  and,  even  after  he  became  a  large  boy, 
would  often  indulge  in  these  selfish  sports. 

His  sister  Mary  had  a  beautiful  canary-bird, 
which  Tom  had  himself  given  her  for  a  birthday 
present.  He  had  saved  his  pocket-money  for  a 
long  time  to  enable  him  to  do  this  kindness  to  his 
sister;  and  no  one  would  have  supposed,  that,  after 
this  self-denial  had  put  it  in  his  power  to  give  her 
so  much  pleasure,  he  would  have  taken  any  satis- 
faction in  teasing  and  vexing  her  about  the  bird. 

But   it   happened   that   a   gentleman,   at  whose 


Mischievous  Tom.  179 

house  he  was  visiting,  made  Tom  a  present  of  a 
stuffed  canary-bird,  exactly  resembling  Mary's 
sweet  little  songster.  It  immediately  occurred  to 
him,  that  this  would  be  a  fine  opportunity  to  play  a 
trick  upon  Mary.  He  knew  that  she  always  visited 
her  bird  the  first  thing  in  the  morning ;  and,  rising 
very  early,  he  secretly  took  the  living  bird  from  the 
cage,  and  put  the  stuffed  one  in  its  place.  He  con- 
trived to  place  it  upon  the  perch  in  such  a  way  that 
it  looked  as  if  it  were  alive  ;  and  then,  carrying  the 
real  bird  to  his  own  room,  secured  him  carefully  in 
an  old  cage  which  he  had  there. 

\Yhen  little  Mary  came  down  stairs,  she  hast- 
ened, as  usual,  to  feed  her  favorite,  and  clean  his 
pretty  house.  She  was  much  surprised  that  he  did 
not  begin  to  chirp  and  flutter  as  usual  at  her  ap- 
proach ;  and  she  said  sorrowfully  to  her  mother, 
who  had  just  entered  the  room,  that  she  feared  poor 
birdy  was  sick.  She  took  down  the  cage ;  and, 
opening  the  door,  held  a  lump  of  sugar  to  his  bill 
to  see  if  he  would  eat ;  but,  the  moment  she  touched 
him,  he  fell  from  the  perch  ;  and,  taking  him  up, 
she  found  he  was  quite  cold  and  lifeless.  Bursting 
into  tears,  she  ran  to  her  mother,  and  hid  her  face 


180  Mischievous  Tom. 

in  her  lap,  sobbing  out,  "  O  mother,  mother  !  my 
sweet  pet  is  dead  !  " 

Just  then  Tom  sprang  from  his  hiding-place, 
where  he  had  been  watching  the  whole  scene,  ex- 
claiming, — 

"  No,  no,  Mary  !  he  is  not  dead.  That  is  not 
your  bird  at  all.  I  have  him  safe  in  my  cage  up- 
stairs. This  is  a  stuffed  one  which  Mr.  Watson 
gave  me.  But  wasn't  it  good  fun  to  see  you  hold 
the  sugar  to  his  bill?"  And  at  this  recollection, 
Tom  rolled  on  the  floor,  almost  convulsed  with 
laughter. 

"It  may  be  'good  fun'  to  you,  Tom,"  replied 
his  mother,  gravely;  "but  it  was  great  pain  to 
your  sister,  and  I  think  it  a  wicked  and  foolish 
joke.  Some  day,  my  son,  I  fear  you  will  learn 
from  bitter  experience  that  there  is  little  fun  in 
selfish  sport.  Mischief,  sooner  or  later,  will  bring 
just  punishment  upon  its  author." 

Merry  Tom  was  not  convinced  by  what  his 
mother  said.  He,  however,  ran  gayly  up-stairs, 
and  soon  returned  with  poor  Mary's  bird,  who  had 
been  much  surprised  at  his  change  of  residence. 
Mary  was  too  much  delighted  to  have  her  little 
pet,  again  to  think  of  reproaching  her  brother,  and 


Mischievous  Tom.  181 

x 

was  soon  busily  engaged  in  giving  him  his  morning 
meal. 

That  same  day,  as  Tom  was  returning  from 
school,  he  stopped  for  a  few  moments  at  old 
Susan's  cottage.  Susan  had  formerly  lived  with 
Tom's  mother  ;  and  the  children  were  fond  of  her, 
and  often  visited  her,  and  carried  with  them  little 
presents  which  their  mother  gave  them  for  the 
purpose.  Tom,  in  particular,  was  a  great  favorite 
with  Susan ;  and,  indeed,  he  was  very  kind  to 
her.  She  lived  alone  with  an  orphan  niece,  —  a 
little  girl  about  the  age  of  Mary, —  and  was  often 
glad  of  his  assistance  in  various  ways.  In  the 
winter,  when  the  snow  was  deep,  he  was  careful 
to  shovel  good  paths  around  her  house,  and  to 
see  that  she  was  well  supplied  with  wood  and 
water ;  and,  in  the  spring  and  summer,  he  spent 
many  a  play-hour  in  her  little  garden,  assisting 
in  the  cultivation  of  the  various  vegetables  with 
which  the  plot  of  ground  was  well  rilled. 

On  the  morning  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
Tom  observed  that  the  little  peach-tree,  which 
both  he  and  Susan  had  watched  over  so  carefully, 
was  quite  full  of  peaches,  and  that  they  appeared 
to  be  very  nearly  ripe. 


1 82  Mischievous  Tom. 

X 

"  You  will  have  a  fine  basket  of  peaches  from 
your  little  tree,  Susan,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the 
cottage.  "When  do  you  mean  to  gather  them?" 

"  To-morrow  morning,  Master  Tom  ;  and,  if 
you  will  call  in  on  your  way  to  school,  you  shall 
have  a  dozen  of  the  best  that  are  gathered.  Many 
a  night  I  have  lain  awake,  thinking  of  my  little 
peach-tree,  and  hoping  that  the  naughty  boys  in 
the  neighborhood  would  not  rob  me  of  its  fruit ; 
but  J  believe  they  have  too  much  good  feeling  to 
wish  to  trouble  a  poor  old  woman  like  myself. 
At  any  rate,  I  am  pretty  safe  from  them  now  ; 
for,  in  twentv-four  hours  more,  the  peaches  will 
be  picked,  and  in  a  safe  place." 

"  I  will  not  forget  to  call  for  my  share,"  said 
Tom,  laughing,  as  he  bade  the  good  woman  good- 
morning,  and  advised  her  still  to  keep  a  sharp 
watch  for  the  thieves,  for  they  might  come  at  the 
last  moment. 

As  he  walked  along  to  school,  he  thought  what 
a  fine  plan  it  would  be  to  go  himself  and  gather 
the  peaches  that  evening,  and  hide  them  in  some 
safe  place  until  the  next  day. 

"  It  would  be  such  fun,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"to  see  poor  Susan's  consternation,  when  slie 


Mischievous  Tom.  183 

finds  her  tree  empty !  And,  after  all,  I  should  be 
doing  her  a  service ;  for  it  would  save  her  the 
trouble  of  gathering  the  peaches  herself."  He 
knew  that  she  went  Jo  bed  very  early,  and  that 
there  would  be  little  danger  of  his  being  dis- 
covered if  he  went  any  time  after  dark. 

So,  after  tea  that  evening,  Tom  told  his  parents 
that  he  was  going  to  play  for  a  little  while ;  and 
they,  charging  him  to  be  home  in  good  season, 
and  not  to  get  into  any  mischief,  readily  gave 
their  consent. 

He  secretly  took  a  large  basket  with  him,  which 
he  hid  near  Susan's  cottage ;  and  then,  joining 
some  of  his  companions,  played  merrily  until  the 
time  arrived  when  he  thought  it  would  be  safe  to 
put  his  plan  into  execution.  Between  eight  and 
nine  o'clock,  he  softly  opened  the  gate  of  the  little 
garden,  and,  standing  beneath  the  peach-tree, 
looked  carefully  around.  All  was  still. 

"  Susan  has  gone  to  bed  long  ago,"  said  he. 
"Now  I  will  make  quick  work  of  it."  And,  in 
another  moment,  he  was  busily  engaged  in  putting 
the  peaches  into  the  basket. 

Now,  it  happened  that  a  neighboring  farmer 
had  called  in  to  see  Susan  that  evening  concerning 


184  Mischievous  Tom. 

some  spinning  which  his  wife  wished  to  have 
done  ;  and,  finding  her  rather  lonely,  had  sat  'for 
an  hour  or  two  to  enjoy  a  little  social  chat.  As 
they  were  on  the  back  side  of  the  house,  and 
Tom  was  on  the  front,  he  did  not  perceive  that 
the  lamp  was  still  burning,  or  he  would  have 
known  at  once  that  it  was  not  safe  to  play  his 
intended  trick.  The  farmer's  dog  lay  on  the  door- 
step, enjoying  a  comfortable  nap ;  but,  being  dis- 
turbed by  some  slight  sound,  he  started  up  with  a 
quick  bark,  and,  seeing  Tom  at  the  peach-tree, 
ran  forward,  and  seized  him  by  the  leg.  In  vain 
poor  Tom  struggled  to  get  free  ;  the  dog  held  him 
fast;  and,  in  another  moment,  the  farmer  rushed 
from  the  cottage,  and  calling  to  Susan  to  stay 
within,  lest  she  should  get  the  rheumatism  from 
exposure  to  the  night  air,  he  caught  hold  of  the 
collar  of  the  supposed  thief,  and,  with  a  stout 
cane  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  gave  him  a 
most  severe  beating. 

Smarting  with  bodily  pain,  and  overwhelmed 
with  mortification,  Tom  would  gladly  have  re- 
treated in  silence  ;  but  after  the  farmer  had  pun- 
ished him,  as  he  thought,  sufficiently,  he  dragged 
him  toward  the  cottage,  exclaiming, — 


Mischievous  Tom.  185 

"Now  come  to  the  light,  my  boy,  and  let  us 
see  who  you  are,  that  would  rob  a  poor  woman 
of  her  little  store." 

Escape  was  impossible.  Susan  came  eagerly 
forward  with  a  blazing  lamp,  the  light  from  which 
no  sooner  fell  upon  the  countenance  of  the  pris- 
oner, than  she  exclaimed  in  astonishment,  — 

"Master  Tom!  Can  it  be  possible?  Surelv, 
Farmer  Roberts,  there  must  be  some  mistake. 
This  is  not  the  boy  who  was  stealing  my  peaches." 

"  The  very  same,  ma'am.  There  stands  his 
basket  with  some  of  the  fruit  already  in  it;  but, 
thanks  to  my  good  dog,  he  had  no  time  to  escape 
with  his  booty.  And  now  I  suppose  he  will  not 
turn  thief  again  in  a  hurry,  for  my  oaken  stick 
has  become  pretty  well  acquainted  with  his  back." 

'•  I  was  not  going  to  steal  your  peaches,  Susan," 
said  Tom,  struggling  for  utterance.  "I  only  meant 
to  hide  them  until  morning,  just  to  play  you  a 
little  trick." 

Susan  was  so  much  shocked  and  grieved  at 
what  had  taken  place,  that  it  was  some  time 
before  she  could  understand  the  truth  of  the 
matter.  When  the  whole  story  was  explained, 


1 86  Mischievous  Tom. 

Fqrmer  Roberts  expressed  his  regret  for  the 
severe  punishment  which  he  had  given  Tom. 

"  But  it  may  be  a  useful  lesson  to  you,  my 
boy,"  he  said  kindly.  "  Those  who  indulge  in 
mischief  at  the  expense  of  the  feelings  of  others, 
are  generally  punished  in  one  way  or  another." 

Tom  now  took  his  basket,  and  crept  toward 
home,  rather  discontented  with  the  result  of  his 
evening's  sport.  Although  very  sore  and  lame 
from  the  effects  of  the  beating,  he  tried  to  appear 
as  usual  before  his  parents,  hoping  that  the  affair 
might  be  kept  secret ;  but,  very  early  the  next 
morning,  Susan  was  at  the  house  to  inquire  how 
he  was,  and  to  beg  Mrs.  Stevens  to  forgive  her 
for  what  had  occurred. 

Neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Stevens  regretted  the 
lesson  which  Tom  had  received.  They  hoped  it 
would  have  a  salutary  effect,  and  kindly  comforted 
Susan,  assuring  her  that  she  was  not  at  all  to 
blame.  The  story  soon  got  abroad  in  the  village, 
and  was  considered  an  excellent  joke  among  Tom's 
school-fellows. 

But  one  lesson,  however  severe,  was  not  enough 
to  cure  him  of  his  inveterate  love  for  seltish 
sports,  or  "  good  fun,"  as  he  denominated  it. 


Mischievous  Tom.  187 

Not  very  long  after  the  affair  of  the  peach- 
tree,  Tom  was  one  clay  amusing  himself  with 
sailing  about  a  small  pond  in  the  garden,  in  a 
little  boat  which  his  father  kept  for  the  purpose. 
Tom  had  been  taught  to  row,  and  there  was  little 
danger  of  any  accident,  if  he  was  cautious.  Pres- 
ently he  saw  his  sister  Mary  standing  near  the 
edge  of  the  pond,  looking  earnestly  at  him. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  a  sail,  Mary?"  he 
asked  good-naturedly,  at  the  same  time  I'owing 
toward  the  spot  where  she  stood. 

"•  Very  much,"  replied  Mary,  "  if  yon  think 
mother  would  be  willing  to  trust  me  with  you." 

"  To  be  sure  she  would,"  answered  her  brother. 
"  Father  says  I  can  manage  this  boat  as  well  as 
he  can.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  I  will  help  you 
in." 

Mary  enjoyed  her  sail  exceedingly,  and  soon  felt 
quite  at  her  ease.  For  some  time  all  went  well ; 
but,  at  last,  Tom  could  not  rfisist  his  inclination 
to  play  her  a  little  trick.  Seizing  an  opportunity 
when  she  was  not  observing  him,  he  threw  a  little 
water  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  then  sud- 
denlv  exclaimed,  as  if  in  much  affright, — 

"OMary!    what  shall  we  do?     The  boat  has 


1 88  Mischievous  Tom. 

sprung  a  leak,  and  will  certainly  go  to  the  bottom  ! 
See,  see  !     She  is  filling  with  water  already  !  " 

Mary  uttered  a  loud  scream,  and,  before  Tom 
could  detain  her,  sprung  from  her  seat  so  hastily, 
that  she  lost  her  balance,  and  fell  into  the  water. 
It  was  in  the  very  middle  of  the  pond  ;  and  she 
must  soon  have  been  drowned,  had  not  the  gar- 
dener, alarmed  by  her  cries,  rushed  to  her  assist- 
ance. He  swam  toward  the  spot  where  she  had 
sunk,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  succeeded  in 
raising  her,  and  carrying  'her  to  the  shore.  She 
was  quite  insensible,  and  for  some  time  her 
anxious  parents,  and  the  physician  who  had  been 
called,  hung  over  her,  uncertain  whether  she 
would  ever  breathe  again. 

Tom  was  overcome  with  horror  and  remorse  at 
the  sad  consequences  of  his  silly  trick ;  but  when 
his  sister  revived,  and,  after  a  few  days,  was  nearly 
as  well  as  usual,  the  remembrance  of  his  grief 
faded  from  his  mi  Ad,  and  he  was  soon  as  fond 
of  mischief  as  ever. 

There  was  an  old  colored  man,  who  had  long 
been  employed  by  Tom's  father,  and  was  held  in 
high  esteem  by  all  the  family.  Paul, — for  so  he 
was  called^  —  was  naturally  rather  timid  ;  and  was, 


Mischievous  Tom.  189 

in  particular,  a  strong  believer  in  all  the  foolish 
tales  of  departed  spirits.  One  day,  when  walking 
with  Tom  in  a  lonely  place  at  some  distance  from 
the  house,  he  pointed  to  a  large  tree,  saying,  with 
a  sort  of  shudder,  — 

"  That  is  the  haunted  tree,  Master  Tom.  Many 
years  ago,  an  unfortunate  man,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  have  committed  some  fearful  crime  which 
had  escaped  detection,  hung  himself  upon  a  bough 
of  that  tree.  Ever  since  that  time,  if  you  pass 
the  place  after  nightfall,  strange  sounds  are  heard 
among  the  branches,  resembling  the  groans  of  a 
dying  man." 

Tom  laughed  heartily  at  this  idle  tale,  and  as- 
sured Paul  that  he  would  take  the  first  opportunity 
of  visiting  the  place  after  dark,  that  he  might 
himself  hear  these  strange  sounds,  and  judge  what 
they  meant.  Paul  solemnly  warned  him  against 
the  indulgence  of  such  foolish  curiosity,  and  the 
conversation  was  dropped. 

Not  many  evenings  after,  Paul  was  sent  of  an 
errand  to  a  neighboring  village.  It  was  necessary 
for  him  to  pass  the  dreaded  tree,  and  Tom  shook 
his  head  at  him  as  he  went  out,  saying, — 

"  Beware  of  the  ghost,  Paul ! " 


190  Mischievous  Tom. 

The  poor  old  man  mustered  up  all  his  courage, 
and  walked  steadily  and  safely  by  the  spot ;  then, 
rejoicing  in  his  success,  he  went  happily  on  his 
way.  It  was  darker  when  he  returned,  and  his 
fears  increased  as  he  drew  near  the  tree  ;  but,  re- 
membering that  all  was  silent  when  he  passed  it 
before,  he  walked  swiftlv  along.  Immediately, 
however,  he  heard  the  most  fearful  groans  from 
among  the  branches,  accompanied  by  other  sounds, 
that  seemed  most  horrible  to  poor  frightened  Paul. 
At  first,  he  Was  so  overcome  with  terror,  that  he 
stood  quite  motionless,  and  seemed  about  to  sink 
to  the  ground  ;  but,  recovering  himself  a  little,  he 
took  to  his  heels,  and  ran  for  dear  life.  Directly 
the  air  resounded  with  merry  Tom's  shouts  of 
langhter ;  and,  looking  back,  Paul  saw  his  young 
master  perched  among  the  highest  branches  of 
the  haunted  tree.  Relieved  of  his  fears,  but  at  the 
same  time  vexed  at  the  trick  which  had  been  played 
him,  he  slowly  returned,  calling  to  Tom  to  mind 
how  he  came  down  ;  for  the  tree  was  a  difficult 
one  to  climb,  and,  if  he  did  not  stop  laughing,  he 
would  be  very  likely  to  miss  his  foot-hold. 

"  O  Paul,  Paul,  how  funny  you  looked ! "  ex- 
claimed Tom,  redoubling  his  merriment  at  the 


Mischievous  Tom.  191 

thought.  It  would  have  been  far  better  had  he 
regarded  Paul's  warning ;  for,  at  this  moment,  his 
foot  slipped,  —  a  small  branch  of  which  he  had 
hold  gave  way,  —  and  he  fell  to  the  ground. 

Paul  hastened  to  assist  him  ;  but  he  soon  found 
that  some  sad  accident  must  have  taken  place  in 
the  fall,  for  Tom  could  not  rise  without  screaming 
with  pain.  He  was  carried  home,  and  a  phys- 
ician called,  who  told  them  that  he  had  broken 
his  right  leg  badly,  and  it  would  be  many  weeks 
before  he  could  use  it  at  all. 

This  was,  indeed,  a  severe  punishment.  For  a 
long  time  Tom  was  confined  to  one  position,  and 
entirely  unable  to  join  in  the  sports  of  his  com- 
panions. Besides  this,  he  suffered  a  great  deal  of 
pain,  and  it  was  feared  that  he  would  be  always 
lame. 

Now  he  had  leisure  to  reflect  upon  the  causes 
of  this  sad  disaster ;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  saw  his  condnct  in  its  true  light,  and  truly 
repented  of  the  selfish  pleasure  which  he  had 
found  in  giving  pain  to  others. 

In  after-life  he  carefully  avoided  every  kind  of 
selfish  sport ;  and,  whenever  he  met  with  those 


192  Mischievous  Tom. 

who  took  delight  in  this  species  of  "  good  fun,"  he 
would  tell  them  his  own  history,  and  assure  them 
that  mischief  will,  sooner  or  later,  bring  evil  con- 
sequences upon  its  author. 


UCSB  IIBRARV 


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